Blythe Spirit
by Morte Rouge
Summary: Gilbert Blythe took it for granted that Avonlea girls would always swoon at his feet - until Anne Shirley cracked her slate over his head instead. How can it be that the one girl he really cares about won't even look his way?
1. Melodramatic

_**Chapter One: Melodramatic**_

_I met a lady in the meads,_

_Full beautiful—a faerie's child;_

_Her hair was long, her foot was light,_

_And her eyes were wild._

-Keats, from _La Belle Dame Sans Merci_

Gilbert Blythe was glad to be going back to school.

The tall, dark thirteen-year-old boy had not walked to Avonlea School like this for four or five years. Since his father's illness Gilbert had not even set foot in Avonlea, until several months ago.

Mr. Blythe had taken his son with him to Alberta to have a go at the "prairie cure" for the father's bout of consumption; and, Gilbert was proud and glad to say, it had worked, and now John Blythe was as hale and hearty as Gilbert recalled him from childhood. Unfortunately in all this time Gilbert did not attend school.

Then the whole family had been in New Brunswick, visiting cousins, from July to middle-September; and now it was 24 September, 1877, and Gilbert was multitasking.

Not that walking to school and eavesdropping on people—girls, to be precise—who were talking about oneself, was ever a grand feat, but it was what Gilbert was doing. He walked carefully behind the two eleven-year-old sprites, far enough away so as not to be noticed, yet still in earshot.

"…he's _aw'fly_ handsome, Anne," exclaimed Diana Barry, a girl of pretty complexion and black hair, with an earnestness that confused the "aw'fly handsome" boy. "And he teases the girls something terrible."

Which was true.

"He just torments our lives out," concluded Diana, although she seemed to rather look forward to being tormented to death.

The other girl, whose face Gilbert could not see, tossed a red braid scornfully over her shoulder. This was Anne Shirley, a newcomer to Avonlea, a girl who the Cuthberts over at Green Gables had adopted.

Gilbert had heard about Anne Shirley ever since his return from New Brunswick several weeks ago. She had arrived, an orphan, a stray waif, in June. The other girls said Anne was "different," with an air that indicated they rather liked the difference. The boys remarked upon her "queerness," which they would not elaborate upon, but which they seemed to be almost wary of. Little Jerry Buote, the Cuthberts' hired boy, claimed Anne Shirley was crazy and talked to herself; then again, Jerry Buote was not an altogether credible source, having only begun work at Green Gables several days before. Mrs. Rachel Lynde noted that she was "an odd, inquisitive little thing," but approvingly. To top it all off, Charlie Sloane, Gilbert's closest chum, had, in front of Mrs. Sloane herself, assured Gilbert that Anne was "the smartest girl in school"; coming from Charlie this meant "the prettiest."

"Gilbert Blythe?" Anne Shirley was saying. "Isn't it his name that's written up on the porch with Julia Bell's and a big 'Take Notice' over them?"

Gilbert stopped walking for several seconds. When had Julia Bell—or who ever had posted the "Take Notice", for that matter—contrived of such an unlikely thing? Gilbert liked Julia Bell rather little.

"Yes, but I'm sure he doesn't like Julia Bell so very much," said Diana doubtfully. (Gilbert silently thanked Diana.) "I've heard him say he studied the multiplication table by her freckles." (Gilbert revoked his gratitude hastily, as he could not remember ever having made such a statement, let alone having got close enough to Julia Bell to count her freckles.)

"Oh, don't speak about freckles to me!" cried Anne. "It isn't delicate when I've got so many! But," she went on, "I do think that writing take-notices up on the wall about boys and girls is the silliest ever. I should just like to see any body _dare_ write my name up with a boy's!" She sighed. "Not, of course, that any body would."

"Nonsense!" chastised Diana. "It's only meant as a joke. And anyways, don't you be _too _sure you name won't ever be written up. Charlie Sloane is _dead gone _on you. He told Gilbert Blythe and Mrs. Sloane—Charlie's _mother_ mind you—that you were the smartest girl in the whole school; that's much better than good-looking."

"No, it isn't!" wailed Anne. 'I'd rather be pretty than clever! And I positively _despise_ Charlie Sloane; I can't bear a boy with goggle-eyes. If any one wrote my name up with his I'd _never_ get over it, Diana Barry."

Gilbert had begun to think that Anne Shirley waxed a bit melodramatic.

"Though it _is _nice to keep head of your class," Anne conceded.

"You'll have Gilbert in you class after this, and _he's _used to being head of his class, I can tell you." Diana elaborated, telling the history of Gilbert's schooling—or lack thereof—for the past four or five years. "You won't find it so easy to keep head after this, Anne."

"I'm glad. I couldn't really feel proud of keeping head of little boys and girls of just nine or ten. I got up yesterday spelling 'ebullition'. Josie Pye was head and she peeped in her book. Mr. Phillips didn't see her; he was looking at Prissy Andrews, but I did. I just swept her a look of freezing scorn and she got red as a beet and spelled it wrong, after all." Anne nodded in satisfaction.

The two girls climbed over the fence of the main road, still talking, and Gilbert lost hearing of it. Oh, well. He should not have been listening so intently to their chatter in the first place.

Even if it was mostly about him.

**XXX**

"Class, I would be extremely gratified if you would sit down and stop talking," Mr. Phillips pleaded sarcastically.

Instantly the class subsided, hating the sarcastic inflection Theodore Phillips often utilized, like a whip cracked just over their heads.

He smiled obsequiously. "Thank you. Now if you are in the arithmetic class, please practise your long division, and fractions. French class, you may review your irregular verbs, and the difference between themselves and the regular verbs, while I listen to Priscilla Andrews' Latin."

While Mr. Andrews flirted shamelessly with Prissy Andrews in the back of the classroom where she was seated, Gilbert tried to study _être_, _aller _and _avoir_. But soon he was distracted, not only because he already spoke French fluently and was therefore reasonably bored, but because the long, silky golden braid of Ruby Gillis in front of him whisked about a little every time she put—well, slate pencil to slate.

Without moving his gaze from the end of the yellow plait, Gilbert rummaged about in his seemingly endless boy-pockets before a prick and a vehement exclamation from his own mouth reassured him that he was currently in possession of several straight pins. Sucking the injured index and middle fingers of his left hand, Gilbert directed his eyes this time to his filled pocket. Carefully he extricated from the chaos of string, broken glass, bits of wire, scraps of paper, glass beads, a brass knob, and other such useful objects, a paper full of straight pins. Gilbert slid one out, and began, surreptitiously, his breathing quiet and shallow, to fasten Ruby's braid to the back of her seat.

Soon Ruby, having just conquered her long-division exercise, began to stand to take her slate to Mr. Phillips for corrections; the pin caught her by the hair, of course, and she shrieked, collapsing into her seat again with a _whump_. All Avonlea School, including the teacher, stared so hard in startled inquiry that ruby promptly burst into tears; meanwhile, Gilbert had taken out his Canadian history and concealed the pin between Jacques Cartier and Samuel de Champlain.

After a period of about forty seconds, as all was quiet again, he glared to glance around.

His hazel eyes met the quietly disdainful stare of Anne Shirley, seated directly across from himself. She regarded him dubiously, apparently displeased by the roguish humiliation of a girl who was, no doubt, one of her intimates.

Gilbert almost stared back. Anne was certainly not as homely as she claimed herself to be. Instead she was possessed of pale skin, with fewer freckles than she had led him to believe; grey eyes that seemed to sparkle with beauty, vivacity and imagination; and fiery red hair that rather enhanced her resemblance of an aerie sprite as opposed to the unfashionable colour red hair was generally considered. Also, she had a very nice nose.

In fact, she was rather pretty, despite the frown twisting her delicate features at present.

This last revelation was what caught Gilbert up short. He snapped back to life, gave the red-headed girl a wink and a grin, and returned to the French and Iroquois Wars.

Out of the corner of his eye he watched Anne Shirley sigh despondently, turn to Diana Barry next to her, and whisper furiously.

He shook his head. Melodramatic was right.


	2. Carrots and Candy Hearts

_**Chapter Two: Carrots and Candy Hearts**_

_Not ten yoke of oxen have the power to draw us like a woman's hair._

-Longfellow, _The Saga of King Olaf_

Histrionically inclined or not, Gilbert could not tear his eyes away from Anne Shirley for most of the afternoon. There was something about the pointed graceful nose, the dreamy smile, the dazzling grey eyes, the russet curls, that utterly captivated Gilbert. He thought he was being surreptitious about the stolen glances, but—

"Gilbert? Gilbert Blythe…?"

"Huh?" Gilbert was dragged rudely back into reality by Mr. Phillips' awful sarcastic inflection.

"Are you alive and pretending to be dead, or dead and pretending to be alive?! If you would care to join us…" the master indicated the rest of the class watching Gilbert's fluster—Anne among them, regarding him curiously, obviously unaware that she had been the object of his reverie.

"I'm sorry, sir," Gilbert mumbled.

Mr. Phillips smirked. "Good. Now that you are returned to us…perhaps you can tell us when to use _savoir _or _connaître._"

Gilbert racked his brains for the rule that governed two of the most often used French verbs. "Er…_savoir_ means…"to know". As in, to know what colour an apple is, or to know the sum of five and fifteen. _Connaître _is "to be familiar with", to know, a person or an artist's work."

Mr. Phillips was nonplussed. He had evidently assumed Gilbert had not been studying at the same time as gazing at a girl.

Then again, Gilbert _hadn't_ been studying. It was not as though he advertised his knowledge of the French language.

_And I was NOT mooning over Anne Shirley! _he told himself sternly.

But when Mr. Phillips returned to the back again, ostensibly to go over Prissy Andrews' algebra with her, the class were free to do as they pleased.

And Gilbert had returned to admiring Anne.

The vivid afternoon sun fell over her gingham-clad shoulders most becomingly, Gilbert thought, _like—like…a golden scarf of shining hue,_ a phrase, he thought, would cause Anne to at least smile at him if she heard it, given the flowery, poetic phrases he had heard issue from her lips during the dinner-hour as Charlie Sloane gabbled amiably away, blissfully unaware of Gilbert's inattention.

But currently Anne was oblivious of all, gazing out the western window upon Barry's Pond in some sort of daydream.

_Daydreaming again._ Gilbert was frustrated. Staring fixedly at some one, especially a girl, in order to attract their own eyes, had never failed him before. And now Anne Shirley either did not notice his existence at present, or pretended she did not.

"Anne…?"

Anne continued to act as if there was no such person as Gilbert Blythe.

Gilbert sighed and decided there was only one way to get her attention. Quietly, he reached across the aisle and took hold of the end of one of Anne's braids (which was very soft). "Hey, Carrots!" Gilbert whispered. "Carrots!"

Anne's reaction was instantaneous—more rapid than Gilbert expected. She immediately whirled in her seat, somehow rising at the same time. The sparkle in Anne's eyes had been whisked away by anger and a briny drop or two; her mouth was a round O as she glared at the offending boy; she quivered with rage and emotion. "You mean, _hateful_ boy!" she shrieked, "how dare you!"

The next thing Gilbert knew he had been hit rather hard by something. He heard a loud _CRACK_, and dimly hoped it had not been his skull.

"Oooooh!" murmured the class, ecstatic.

Ruby burst into tears again.

Gilbert rubbed the shooting stars of pain out of his eyes. Both he and Anne gazed, speechless, at the fragments of Anne's slate that remained in her hands.

"Anne Shirley!" Mr. Phillips exclaimed vehemently, mysteriously materializing at her side. "What does this mean?"

Anne's throat worked in a way that betrayed tears if she spoke a word. Gilbert came to her rescue; manfully defended her honour, though he could feel a lump beginning on his head. "It was my fault, Mr. Phillips. I teased her."

But the master ignored him. "I am sorry to see a pupil of mine displaying such a temper—and such a vindictive spirit!" he spat. "Anne, go and stand on the platform in front of the blackboard for the rest of the afternoon."

White-faced, Anne glided, deathly silent, to the platform and stepped up, _à la _Hester Prynne.

"Ann Shirley," griped Mr. Phillips as he wrote it upon the board, "has a very…bad…temper. Ann Shirley must learn…to control her temper." He cast the chalk down so hard the slender stick broke, and returned to Prissy.

All knew Anne's name had been spelt wrong.

Gilbert tried to catch Anne's eye; tried to make her see, by expression or gesture, that he was dreadfully sorry. But Anne stood with her eyes upon the ceiling even unto the end of school, whereupon she swooped past Gilbert's desk, collected her things, and departed in high dudgeon with Diana close behind.

Gilbert was not in his desk; he was at the porch door when Anne arrived at that spot, and tried to speak to her. "I'm awful sorry I made fun of your hair, Anne. Honest, I am. Don't be mad for—" he trailed off as she passed by as serenely as if the doorway had been empty.

Gilbert watched Anne disappear over the hill despondently. He had never meant to get her into trouble.

After all, carrots were his favourite vegetable.

**XXX**

The very next day, things worsened.

At dinner Gilbert, being a perfectionist, was displeased with his French composition, and extracted permission from Mr. Phillips to stay inside the classroom and rewrite it, though the teacher himself left for his meal.

If Gilbert Blythe had been a different sort of boy, he might have seized this opportunity to exact revenge upon Mr. Phillips—on Anne's behalf. But Gilbert, if this idea ever even occurred to him, was far too sensible a boy to do so. The rest of the school were loitering about in Mr. Bell's spruce groves, where tasty nuts of gum were to be had. Gilbert did not enjoy the tangy taste of spruce gum anyways, so felt no qualms about his choice.

In about an hour a great deal of girls came rushing in. Before school had been dismissed the previous day, Mr. Phillips warned all that they had better be in their seats before he returned, and the girls especially did not want to be caught out.

People trickled in by twos and threes. Finally, just after Mr. Phillips himself had entered, in came the rest of the boys and Anne Shirley, obviously not having been with them but trying not to be trampled.

Now there had not been a great many boys with Anne, perhaps only five or six; therefore, punishment should have been hence, but Mr. Phillips found a target in Anne.

"Anne Shirley, since you seem to be so fond of the boys' company we shall indulge your taste for it this afternoon. Take those flowers out of your hair—and sit with Gilbert Blythe!"

Diana dropped the rice lilies she had pulled from Anne's curls in shock, whilst Anne herself turned the same colour white as the drooping blossoms.

"Did you hear what I said, Anne?" sneered Mr. Phillips.

Anne trembled. She managed to produce, quietly, the words, "Yes, sir…but I didn't suppose you really meant it…?"

"I _assure_ you I did. Obey me at once."

Proudly, but with a tremor of her lower lip, Anne seated herself beside Gilbert as close to the outer edge of the chair as was anatomically possible and buried her face in her arms.

When nothing else happened, the class resumed their work, but Gilbert was not entirely concentrated on his fractions. Surreptitiously he studied the curly red head several feet away.

She had very pretty hair, even though it was red. Gilbert decided he liked red hair, belonging to one girl in particular.

He remembered an embarrassing token slipped into his palm by his mother just as he left for school. Opening his desk silently, he extracted a small pink chalky candy heart, (such as can be found today, but which was of better quality and better prose then,) reading "You are sweet".

It was indeed true. Anne Shirley was sweet—just not when associating with, or rather ignoring, Gilbert.

He found the gap between the wood desk and Anne's upper arm, and slid his peace-offering timidly into that space.

After about a minute, during which Gilbert supposed Anne was attempting to make out the shape, identity and motto of the object without raising her head from its dignified repose, Anne did indeed rouse herself. Gilbert smiled to himself and opened his mouth to speak—but his attempt at conversation ended in a dumbfounded gape as Anne held the candy between two fingers as though it were a dead mouse drowned in an uncovered sauce, dropped it upon the floor, and crushed it under her boot-heel. She then returned to her piteous position.

In all this time she did not give Gilbert even one glance.


	3. Chrysanthemum

**I was just watching an **_**Anne of Green Gables**_** video on YouTube, by ****AmyofGreenGables****; a music video to the song "You're Beautiful" and from Gil's POV. I highly recommend this imaginative allegory.**

**Also, be forewarned that my retelling will fluctuate between the 1985 movie and the original novel. There are some scenes which I am aware many prefer onscreen to the paper-and-ink counterparts. This chapter is the first such example.**

**-M.R.**

_**Chapter Three: Chrysanthemum**_

_There is no excellent beauty that hath not some strangeness in the proportion._

-Francis Bacon

"All right," said Mr. Phillips at length, "let's begin the spelling-bee."

In the last two hours Anne had neither lifted her head from the desk nor acknowledged Gilbert's presence, let alone his feeble attempts at conversation.

"Miss Andrews," the teacher grinned greasily at Prissy: "could you give us the spelling of 'chrysanthemum', please?"

Every one turned to watch Prissy simper at Mr. Phillips as she rose from her seat. They wondered if she was as good at spelling as at mathematics—for which she was celebrated.

Even Anne had condescended to arise and spectate.

Prissy's already florid face flushed crimson. "C…" she began confidently, "h…y…no. C-h-r…i…s…s…"

The boys exchanged wickedly gleeful glances as Prissy got even more confused.

"A…n…s…m?...u-m!" she bleated.

The entire time Mr. Phillips' confident smile had been steadily slipping from his face. "Perhaps we'll turn our attention to you spelling, now that your mathematics is well enhanced," he said hastily, and tried in vain to smile. Clearing his throat, he looked at Gilbert. "Gilbert? 'Chrysanthemum'?"

Trying to hide an impolite smirk, as he was very good at spelling, Gilbert stood and recited glibly, "Chrysanthemum. C-h-r-y…s-a-n…t-h-a-m-u-m." But now he could not suppress a small smile, as he was sure of his success.

But—"H'm," frowned Mr. Phillips.

"_H'm"?! What do you mean, "h'm"—what did I get wrong?!_ Gilbert though indignantly as he sank into the low seat.

"Hmm…" said the teacher again, his eyes coming to rest on Anne sitting beside Gilbert. "Anne…?"

Anne promptly stood, flung Gilbert a scornful glance, and reeled off "Chrysanthemum. C-h-r-y-s-a-n-t-h-_E_-m-u-m."

_Oh._

"Correct," scowled Mr. Phillips, obviously frustrated that the day's troublemaker had triumphed over his Prissy.

Gilbert and Anne both could hold their own in a spelling-bee; how ever, as if buoyed up by her initial success, Anne won the little round silver spelling medal, to be possessed until next week's contest and yielded if another won.

"…can't believe Anne Shirley won the spelling bee," Josie Pye fumed. She had come up to Gilbert after school was let out and simply started ranting about Anne; Gilbert politely said nothing. "I mean, you're _obviously_ the best speller in the whole class, I think you should have won—"

"Josie," Gilbert laughed, "spelling bee winner is generally the one who knows their words, not the one some one else wants to win." Light as his tone was, there was a subtle stinger in the last five or six words.

He wished Josie Pye would not follow him around so. He really never could comprehend why she did it. True, the Pyes lived near-by the Blythes so it was only logical they walk home together often. But Josie, with her dirty-blonde hair and pointed nose, was a Pye, and therefore must by all means be a troublesome girl.

Josie took a hint, for once, and fell silent. However, her eyes lit up seconds later and she waved her arm at some one behind Gilbert on the dirt path. "Hey Anne—how do you spell 'freckles'?"

Gilbert whirled around. Anne was indeed there, her eyes flashing and her mouth open as she began a cutting retort—then saw Gilbert and resumed her icy silence.

Diana Barry quickly stepped in. "Hey, Josie," she asked innocently, "how do you spell 'ugly'?" The look on her face, however, was not at all innocuous as she stuck out her tongue at Josie and pulled Anne along.

Gilbert dashed off after Anne.

Judging from a splash of gravel behind him, Josie had followed.

Catching up to the red-headed girl, Gilbert tried to think of something to say. "Congratulations on the spelling test, Anne," he blurted.

_Well, THAT was complimentary,_ nagged a small corner of his mind.

Anne, however, was just as reticent in replying—although Gilbert was, to be quite honest, rather surprised that she had done so at all. She turned and nodded.

"Oh, well, at least you're acknowledging me now!" said Gilbert, rather sarcastically. "That's an improvement—"

Anne stopped in her tracks, causing Gilbert to almost crash into her. This time, she did not deign to look at him as she said, coldly, "It is impolite to pass a person without at least nodding, and so I nod out of elementary good breeding—nothing more."

It was not to say that Gilbert did not understand Anne's words—in fact, he had an extensive vocabulary, that matched, if not exceeded, Anne's own; but the manner in which she was using said vocabulary annoyed Gilbert. "Oh, why don't you get off your high horse?!" he exclaimed impatiently.

"Thank you for your heartfelt congratulations, Mr. Blythe," Anne replied firmly, "but allow me to inform you that next time, I shall be first in every subject." With a toss of her fiery curls Anne had seized Diana by the hand and the two girls swept away, leaving Gilbert gaping in the road.

Snatches of their conversation drifted back to him: "Anne…more nerve than…"

"…don't see any need in being civil to some one who…"

"You're just…"

"…am not! Take that back, Diana Barry!"

Gilbert wondered what Diana had accused Anne of.

"Gilbert, come on!" Josie tugged impatiently at Gilbert's arm.

But Gilbert was glad in a moment that he had not yet left, for just then Anne turned and stared at him, steadily, with a thoughtful look, that made him tremble from head to foot. Then the cloud of resentment covered her face again; she frowned and began walking again.

Josie pinched him—not enough to hurt but to get his attention. "Come _on_! Mrs. Blythe said to make sure we stop by the post-office on the way home!"

Reluctantly, Gilbert followed.


	4. There's Another, Not A Sister

**I know. Chapter Three was a little too close to the movie for my taste as well.**

**mk985****: I do not plan to end **_**Blythe Spirit **_**with the conclusion of ****Anne of Green Gables****. But, as Bilbo Baggins said, "Now far ahead the Road has gone,/ And I must follow, if I can,/ Pursuing it with weary feet,/ Until it joins some larger way,/ Where many paths and errands meet.**

"**And whither then? I cannot say…"**

**But there **_**is**_** a hint as to some of its extent near the end of the chapter.**

**-M.R.**

_**Chapter Four: There's Another, Not A Sister**_

_I am a lone lorn creetur…and everythink goes contrairy with me. _

-Dickens, _David Copperfield _

Fall was quite uneventful, as the students in Avonlea settled back into their scholastic schedules—albeit different this year, as accompanied by Anne Shirley and Gilbert Blythe. However, this was the only thing in which they interacted; Anne continued to utterly ignore Gilbert.

One week-end Gilbert was strolling along the banks of Barry's pond; in fact, in his family's ancient (or so it seemed) strawberry apple orchard.

Perhaps it was the acoustics of the Pond; perhaps it was Gilbert's new, queer awareness of a certain faerielike presence, but soon a familiar, musical voice lilted from the bridge to Gilbert standing so far away.

"…just finished my story for this month's meeting of the Story Club. It's called 'The Jealous Rival; or, In Death Not Divided'…"

Gilbert looked up; certainly, he could see a willowy figure clad in white with red hair, while a black-haired girl—Diana of course—trailed her hand over the railing. They walked, utterly unconscious of any one that might be watching them—such as Gilbert—who instinctively crept behind a tall oak tree, in case they should suddenly tune in to the world about them again. Furtively, he peered out from behind the trunk.

"Yesterday I found this gorgeous big strawberry apple on my desk."

"Ah-ha," whispered Gilbert, watching Anne show the large red fruit to her bosom friend.

"…didn't know they grew in Avonlea, Diana."

"'Course they do," answered Diana amiably, "but only in one place—the old Blythe orchard across the Lake of Shining Waters"—pointing across at the grove in which Gilbert hid.

"Eurgh!" groaned Anne, dropping the apple. It fell with a _plop_ into the Pond and sank for ever from sight and consumption. She wiped her fingers energetically on her white dress. "You don't mean to tell me that Gil—that _that person_, Diana Barry—gave m—"

Then Anne froze—stood straight—looked directly at Gilbert!

Gilbert realised all too late that he had leaned precariously far out from his tree to hear Anne, and been spotted. Mentally cursing himself, he swung back behind the tree. Now Anne would think he was a sneak and a cad, in addition to being downright insufferable!

Cautiously he gazed out again, to see if they were gone—and caught only a glimpse of Diana Barry's orange skirt.

Gilbert sank to the ground at the edge of the tree, his misery complete.

It only got worse when, the following Monday, Anne praised a very confused Charlie for his thoughtful gift; and, when he offered up "in addition" a slate pencil with a striped wrapper—the kind the girls favoured, because it kept the chalky powder rubbing onto their hands—she all but lavished him with compliments and gratitude.

Gilbert ate lunch without Charlie that day. It was not because he was indescribably jealous—although he _was_, and things would have proceeded in this way anyways, if that had been the case—but because Charlie, borne upon the wings of fancy, could not properly land again upon Earth to do his work well, and Mr. Phillips had to keep Charlie in at lunch.

However, Gilbert tried to make amends. That winter, the school gave a Christmas concert.

"_And round the prow they read her name:_

_The Lady of Shalott._

"_Who is this? and what is here?_

_And in the lighted palace near_

_Died the sound of royal cheer;_

_And they crossed themselves for fear,_

_All the knights at Camelot:_

_But Lancelot mused a little space;_

_He said, "She has a lovely face;_

_God in his mercy lend her grace—_

_The Lady_

_of _

_Shalott."_

Anne Shirley was the first to leap to her feet and applaud; at least Diana and several other girls rose also to prevent her being embarrassed, and soon the rest of the audience was giving the oratoress a standing ovation. Gilbert knew that the poem was one of Anne's favorites.

Camille Bell, the young woman who had just delivered her stirringly soulful rendition, blushed, smiled, curtsied, blushed again. Studying the slim, russet-clad figure with pale skin and curly mahogany locks, Gilbert recalled that Charlie had been "dead gone" on Camille until Anne's advent in Avonlea. Probably Camille was infinitely grateful for this transition, even if Gilbert was not.

Camille stepped down from the platform and was replaced by Sam Sloane describing "How Sockery Set A Hen," which he had done every concert for the past three years; so no body really paid any attention—except for Anne, who had never heard it before and therefore could still find it amusing, Gilbert thought ruefully.

Next came Melinda Pye, Josie's older sister—who was not all that disagreeable, for a Pye—speaking of "The Kingfisher":

_It was the rainbow gave thee birth,_

_And left thee all her lovely hues;_

_So runs it in thy blood to choose_

_For haunts the lonely pools…_

Mr. Phillips was generally bad at speaking publicly, although he was after all a teacher; but "friends, Romans, and countrymen" all "lent him their ear" for a stirring rendition of Marc Antony's famous address.

Finally it was Gilbert's turn. He had chosen his piece carefully—not only because of the pathos which he loved to create in the audience, but because of one verse in particular.

"A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers,/ There was lack of woman's nursing—there was dearth of woman's tears;/ But a comrade stood behind him, while his life-blood ebbed away,/ And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he might say…"

About two-thirds of the way through the piece Gilbert's voice strengthened, loudened, became more passionate in describing the dying soldier's message, looking straight at Anne as he cried:

"There's another—not a sister; in the happy days gone by,/ You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye;/ Too innocent for coquetry—too fond for idly scorning,—/ O friend, I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest mourning!/ Tell her the last night of my life (for ere this moon be risen/ My body will be outof pain—my soul be out of prison)/ I dreamed I stood _with her, _and saw the yellow sunlight shine/ On the vine-clad hills of Bingen—fair Bingen on the Rhine!"

A great deal of this message would grow to become all too true. But just now, Gilbert did not know this.

He only knew, as he stumbled through the rest of the poem—to an awkwardness that alarmed all and enlightened one (who had raven hair), that he wished, for the first time in his life, that he might be in the soldier's place—in his death, for the whole time Anne had been reading a book!


	5. Sweets to the Sour

**I wasn't going to post this until Sunday, but I caved, and here is Chapter Five.**

**Hooray for Gilbert's family!**

**Also: this is one of those rare chapters that is, but for the inspiration of one sentence (as quoted below), purely my own invention. Except for the characters, of course. But I think they owe me rent on brainspace, at the very least—having lived here since I was twelve…**

_**Chapter Five: Sweets to the Sour**_

"_I was offered some Mayflowers too, but I rejected them with scorn. I can't tell you the person's name because I have vowed never to let it cross my lips."_

-L.M. Montgomery, _Anne of Green Gables_

"Gil, are you _quite_ sure you want to go to school to-day?" asked Mrs. Jennifer Blythe, holding a floury hand to her son's head. "You're quite clammy, you know."

"I just washed my face, Mother," answered Gilbert, laughing. His mother was one of those inexplicably endearing creatures who are not themselves hypochondriacs, but are firmly convinced that at any moment the people around them are sure to be struck down with the Black Plague. "Besides," he wheedled, "it's the first of May—the first real day of spring—and Mr. Phillips has promised that after the dinner hour we shall spend the rest of the afternoon out-of-doors, collecting Mayflowers."

He pulled out his chair, sat, and began to briskly butter toast.

"I never knew you to be so interested in flowers, specially _pink_ ones," said Gilbert's father, looking at Gilbert curiously. "Or are you interested in collecting a bouquet for the sake of a young woman at school?"

"Oh, Gil!" beamed Mrs. Blythe. "My little boy's being so thoughtful—fancying some sweet young thing who—"

Fortunately Gilbert was spared further flummery by a hearty hailstorm of knocks upon the back door. "Oh look," he said feebly, "there's Charlie Sloane. I have to go." He picked up his books, kissed his mother and gave his father a one-armed hug; and, stuffing a fifth piece of toast into his mouth, dashed out of the precarious situation before his parents even resumed trying to figure out _who_ Gilbert fancied, if at all.

But as the two boys walked to the Avonlea schoolhouse—lately, Charlie's incessant chatter seemed ever background noise to Gilbert's musings—Gilbert mused.

He mused over the idea of giving Mayflowers to a girl. Many boys who admired a girl did so. Usually the girl accepted them with a laugh or a chaste peck on the cheek.

Of course, Gilbert was thinking of not just any girl, but one girl in particular, who had for the past seven or eight months perplexed Gilbert beyond description. He had seen her face across the crowded school-room that first day back at school, and even now, he knew not what to do.

_So give her Mayflowers,_ chided a small voice in his mind.

Given their history, Gilbert did not expect a smile, let alone a kiss. He merely wanted the joyful, unspitefully joyful, satisfaction of seeing Anne's face light up in appreciation of the fragile starry pink cloud he placed in her arms, for just one moment, before her eyes narrowed and she thanked him stiffly for his offering.

It was all he could ask, under the circumstances.

**XXX**

The hills of the unowned land behind the Sloanes' property were starred thickly with Mayflowers, giving the appearance underfoot of a thick, fleecy, perfumed pink carpeting.

The hills were not only alive with Mayflowers, but with the school-children, their arms and hair (of the girls, anyways) full of pink blossoms.

They had lunched in a small hollow, covered all over with moss (as the hollow was mainly great boulders, so nice for sitting and eating one's lunch upon!). At one side of the mossy place resided an old well, unused but not yet dry.

While the girls bothered and fussed over their flowers, and Mr. Phillips emptied handful after handful into Prissy Andrew's yellow-muslin lap, the boys were having their own fun.

Lately in Avonlea, "daring" had come into fashion. It remained, partly because the girls condescended to indulge in a little, harmless "dare" every now and then, but mostly because even the boys never let their daring go so far as to harm any thing or any one.

But today, it could have.

"Come _on_, Sloane, are you really that much of a wimp?" pouted twelve-year-old Arty Gillis.

"Fine then," snickered Charlie. "_You_ do it, Arty."

"Yeah, go on, Gillis!" shouted Moody Spurgeon.

Arty paled.

Gilbert took Charlie's side—no matter how silly he could be, Charlie and Gilbert were thick as thieves. "S'awfully cowardly to dare some one on a thing you won't do yourself, Arty Gillis."

Arty swallowed and looked around at all the boys, at the center of which, were Charlie and Gilbert. "Fine. I—I'll jump over the well, then."

The boys stepped back to allow Arty space. The freckled, sandy-haired boy gulped again, rubbed his nose, and took a running leap at the stone well.

To the astonishment of every boy present, it seemed Arty would conquer his "dare" but then—his shoe caught in the crack between two broken stones and—

It was as though time had slowed down very considerably. Arty was falling, falling backwards into the well, a look of mingled horror, shock, and indignation upon his face. Gilbert broke the circle the boys had made around the spectacle, darted forward, lunged, grasped Arty's hand, pitched forward into the gaping stone maw—

"HELP ME!" Gilbert bellowed at the boys, who stood stunned, frozen, as they watched Gilbert trying single-handedly to rescue Arty. Then suddenly they all surged forward and pulled both boys out of the well. Arty was sobbing violently; dry sobs, that shook his entire body.

"Are you all right?" Gilbert asked the boy, who was as small as a boy half Arty's own age. "I mean, no cuts or scrapes, or anything?"

Arty hiccupped and nodded.

Gilbert patted him on the shoulder. "Good man. I'm sorry we pressured you into that dare."

All of the boys quietly walked off in different directions, in clumps of twos and threes and fours, into the glades and hills full of the tame, innocent flowers—and females. Gilbert himself walked alone to an evergreen, which curved obligingly like a seat at its base.

For about ten minutes he watched boys who he knew fancied this or that girl, scoop up a bunch of the flowers—usually with roots dangling dirt clumps, pebbles, or earth-worms still attached—and present it to their lady of choice. In every instance, the girl blushed and pretended to be scandalously shocked—before accepting the bouquet.

Anne was nowhere to be seen, but Josie Pye was several yards away, talking animatedly to Julia Bell—and casting Gilbert meaningful glances. Gilbert hastily looked down at his shoes—and noticed a perfect patch of Mayflowers.

Each bloom sparkled with dew; every pointed petal shone as if it had been the life's work of a faerie jeweller. Even Gilbert—who was a boy, but had, as we have seen, a faint sense of the romantic—could see that these divinely crafted Mayflowers were Meant To Be brought to Anne by Gilbert!

Carefully Gilbert slid from his tree-perch and picked each flower carefully, being sure not to uproot the plants themselves, like the others had. He arranged them meticulously in his left fist. Finally—Anne would be so pleased—Gilbert removed the silly little chocolate-brown ribbon his mother had tied round his milk-bottle to distinguish it from the others, and gathered Anne's primroses into its shining bow.

He set off in search of Anne—Josie looked quite surprised when the flower-armed Gilbert walked _right past her_—and soon found her in a small, almost-hidden glade, next to a small but industrious brook, with Mayflowers woven into her twisted and gathered curls. But her hands held no nosegays, either collected by herself—or Charlie Sloane, thank goodness!

Gilbert was aware that his palms had become sweaty. Supposing Anne rejected him! Supposing she laughed—or more likely, insulted—him to scorn! But bravely, he pressed on.

The pink against her ruddy hair should have been garish; but the shade of the flowers Anne had chosen was just pale enough that it made her even more beautiful, sitting there with a volume of Tennyson's works open on her white-clad lap.

Indeed, she _looked_ like the immortal Lily Maid—which agve Gilbert his next inspiration.

"Willows whiten, aspens quiver," he quoted softly, "Little breezes dusk and shiver/ Through the wave that runs for ever/ By the island in the river/ Flowing down to Camelot."

Anne, whose back was to Gilbert, looked up in surprise. Looking to her left, across the brook, Gilbert could see her profile, and that she frowned in curiosity as to where the voice came from.

He did not know why he did what he did, only that, he thought, Anne might be pleased by it. "Four grey walls, and four gray towers,/ Overlook a space of flowers,/ And the silent isle imbowers—

"—the Lady of Shalott," he concluded, seating himself gracefully (for a boy) before surprised Anne.

Anne quickly collected herself. "Good afternoon, Mr. Blythe," she murmured politely, gathering her skirts about her and shutting her Tennyson with a _whump_. "May I help you—or were you merely so deeply involved in your Arthurian-era musings that you failed to notice me here?"

_She thinks I could fail to notice her?!_ "The sec—I mean, the first, I'm afraid, actually," babbled Gilbert helplessly. Her bewitching eyes regarded him, not with contempt or scorn for once, but pure bewilderment. "You—I—my—these are for you," he finished helplessly, thrusting his flowers into her empty hand and bracing himself for the explosion.

Anne's cheeks flushed and her mouth became a round O. Gilbert watched, hardly daring to hope, as her beauty-loving eyes quickly drank in the flowers' almost celestial appearance, and fragrance.

She opened her mouth to speak, and closed it, several times. "Oh—I—you didn't—these are indeed lovely," she said finally, standing and picking up her book, "but I am afraid I can not accept them," handing the flowers back to Gilbert who now stood amazed before her, "good day, Mr. Blythe."

And before Gilbert quite understood what had just happened, Anne had swept out and away of the glade and was joining Diana with an innocuous smile and smooth brow—quite, thought Gilbert pitifully, as though nothing had just happened.

**It has just occurred to me that pretty much every chapter ends in Gilbert-pathos. Poor boy.**

**-hugs Gilbert-**


	6. Pride, Prejudice—and Pyes

**From today onward, I shall try to post a chapter at least once a week, on Sundays; for this is the day that I usually have the most time to do so—especially as rehearsals for our school's musical are beginning to pick up at present.**

**_Chapter Six: Pride, Prejudice_—_and Pyes_**

_Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall._

-Old Testament, _Proverbs_

Despite Gilbert's sufferings where a certain red-headed young woman was unrepentantly concerned, he was among the majority of the Avonlea school who were amazed when the year had flown by and found them gazing at a clock that read 2:00—the beginning of the last hour of the school year.

"First," said Mr. Phillips, obviously impervious to the lateness of the hour as he paced reflectively about the small building, "I am pleased to announce that Anne Shirley and Gilbert Blythe…have _tied_ for first-place honours in the term finals."

"Oooooo!" said the class, who were fully aware of the rivalry that was at least on Anne's side. Anne, who had whirled about in her desk the moment her name was mentioned, found herself face-to-face with Gilbert. He attempted a smile, but she sniffed and turned to face the front of the classroom again, where Mr. Phillips had somehow reappeared.

"And now," the master continued, his facial muscles working like a bloated frog's, "the sad news: I am leaving Avonlea; I shall not be with you in the fall to guide your progress to even greater heights of scholastic achievement."

Everyone avoided, firstly, cheering at this most _welcome_ news, and secondly, stealing any more glances at Prissy Andrews, who was shedding tears freely in the back of the classroom; for all knew that Mr. Phillips was leaving Avonlea to be married and move to New Brunswick.

"Let us not have tears," implored Mr. Phillips, although Prissy Andrews was the only student not concealing or suppressing an ear-to-ear grin, "for partings are a natural part of life." He sighed deeply and attempted a smile. "To ease the pain of this news, I have glad tidings. We shall adjourn early this afternoon and make our way to the Spurgeon farm, where Moody's parents have consented to host a celebration in honour of my departure!"

Every single boy in the room rolled his eyes and looked daggers at Moody Spurgeon.

Moody quailed under their accusing glares. "Nobody told _me_!"

But the party, despite its guest of honour, contrived to be quite pleasant. There was plenty of food to go round, and lots of sturdy tree that the boys climbed and swung in like so many monkeys; and presently "daring" was again the order of the day—only this time, the girls began it.

Ruby Gillis, perched precariously in the crook of a huge willow tree, smirked triumphantly upon Carrie Sloane, who had "dared" her to do so—and every body knew how finicky Ruby Gillis generally was about her dress and coming into contact with any thing small, insect, and wriggly—both of which she had just been in danger of.

Once Ruby had climbed down, assisted by a disappointed Carrie, Ruby—being after all the winner of the "dare"—"dared" Moody Spurgeon to sing "Nelly In The Hazel Dell", from start to finish, at the top of his lungs, which Moody stoutly refused to do, as he was upon his own family's property, and not understanding "daring" they would thereafter regard him as odd.

Ruby did not wish to "dare" any body else, so all dispersed for a bit and played other games.

It was not until Mr. Phillips left that things really began to happen.

"Good-by!" cried all the girls, waving their handkerchiefs, while the boys tossed up their caps in a salute for a teacher they had never truly respected until the last moment they saw him.

Josie got up on the Spurgeons' board fence and waved from this vantage point until Mr. Phillips was quite gone; then, with a gloating glance at Anne, caught hold of Gilbert, who happened to be standing at the end of the fence, by the shoulder, and jumped. Gilbert had no choice but to catch her and set her upon her feet on the ground.

Gilbert had not wanted to catch Josie, but he was absurdly gratified as Anne crossed her arms and turned to Diana: "I suppose some people can consider it an _accomplishment_ to walk a little, picket fence, Diana," very languidly. "I knew a girl in Marysville who could walk the ridge-pole of a roof."

"I don't believe it," scoffed Josie. "You sure couldn't—Little Miss Bookworm—"

"Oh, couldn't I?!" Anne cried.

Everyone stared at her.

"Well, it's kind of risky, don't you think, Anne?" Gilbert cut in hastily, as he most certainly did not want to see Anne risk her neck—quite literally—even over some one as insalubrious as Josie Pye.

"Oh. Is it indeed, Mr. Blythe?" asked Anne, in a tone of withering sarcasm that would have made Mr. Phillips proud.

Gilbert realised too late that any misgivings on his part would only strengthen Anne's convictions.

"Then I dare you!" exclaimed Josie exultantly. "I dare you to walk the ridge-pole of Moody's kitchen roof!"

Anne blanched momentarily, but much to the visible horror of Diana and Gilbert himself, at least, she set her chin and walked over to the corner of the house, where a ladder leading up to the roof resided most conveniently. First Diana, then Josie, and Gilbert hot on their heels, rushed after her. The rest of the class followed, murmuring excitedly, at a distance.

"Oh, don't do it, Anne!" implored Diana. "Never mind Josie, it's not a fair dare!"

But Anne staunchly put her left foot upon the first rung of the ladder. "I shall walk that ridgepole," she told Diana solemnly, "or die in the attempt."

Gilbert was rather afraid it would be the latter.

As Anne began her ascent, Gilbert gauged how quickly he could catch her, or first hurry over to the other side if she fell there. It was not that he had so little confidence in her—but she was doing quite a risky thing. In her place Gilbert himself probably would have walked away.

Probably.

Okay, maybe not. As much he hated to admit it, he valued his pride at least as much as his life.

But he valued Anne's life rather more than either.

Meanwhile Anne had reached the chimney and hoisted herself to the ridge-pole. Once steady, she looked down—and met Gilbert's eyes.

He knew what his face presented to her—worry, concern, fear for her life. He doubted, however, that she would choose to see them. _Please don't do this, Anne, _he silently implored her, hoping beyond hope that she would heed and obey.

Naturally she bit her lip and looked away instead.

Gilbert tore his gaze away from Anne long enough to sneak a peek at Diana, whose face was paper-white against her pure-black hair.

Anne let go of the chimney; spread out her arms for balance; took three steps.

The crowd collectively held their breath. Was she going to make it?

_Four…five…_Anne tottered, but straightened again and continued…_six…seven…eight…nine…_an incredibly shaky _ten_ before she lost her balance and went tumbling over the other side of the roof.

Gilbert had sped over to the scene of Anne's fall before the rest of the class heard the _thump_, cried out and ran to look. Anne lay, still and pale, in the flowerbed, and by the time Diana was crouched beside her Gilbert had been there for several moments.

_Anne, don't be dead, please don't…_

"Oh Anne!" cried Diana. "Oh Anne, oh!"

Josie stood a little apart from the scene, her face twisted as she struggled with the thought of what would happen if Anne _was_—Gilbert swallowed.

"Are you killed?" shrieked Diana, although this was by now quite unnecessary, as Anne had opened her eyes and grimaced in pain. "Oh Anne! just say one word and tell me you're not killed!"

"No," griped Anne, "…but I think I've been rendered unconscious." She tried to sit up, dizzily; Diana was still on the verge of hysterics so Gilbert gratefully took Anne's hands in his own—being careful not to let go, with the sensations that shook his body, just being in contact with her—and helped her to her feet.

Anne let go instantly she was standing. "Thank you, Mr. Blythe," she murmured. She essayed to take a step—and almost fell over again, and Gilbert got to hold her arm this time.

With a shrewd nod and weak smile at him, Diana took over this office and helped Anne stagger around the corner of the house.

Gilbert hurried after them. "Anne, I'll call for our carriage and help you home…?"

"That won't be necessary," gasped Anne. "I'm _quite_ capable of getting there on my own."

"I'm going your way," he pointed out, quite truthfully.

Anne stopped walking and Gilbert almost collided into her. She glared at him.

Gilbert met her burning gaze with pleading eyes. "At least let me give you a hand." Unconsciously he took hold of her elbow—as one might do to any girl one was talking to, to emphasize a point—but Anne shook him off.

"Thank you, Mr. Blythe, but I am going in the _opposite_ direction." She stepped forward, almost collapsed a second time, and grabbed Diana's hand for support. "Come along, Diana."

Gilbert followed after for a few paces, stopped and watched as Anne made her slow way out of Moody's yard.

"Anne, you should have let him help you," he heard Diana say. "You're in no condition to walk home."

Anne looked at Diana and said nothing.

Gilbert sighed and turned to find his horse—nearly colliding with Josie Pye as he did so; but he only gave the would-be murderess a sorrowful look and stalked past her.


	7. Visiting Green Gables

**Okay, so it's late. I only had time to begin the chapter six hours ago and have been working at intervals ever since.**

**But it's still Sunday!**

**-M.R.**

_**Chapter Seven: Visiting Green Gables**_

_For love is of sae mickle might, that all it paines makis light._

-John Barbour, _The Bruce_

As it turned out, Anne had sprained one ankle, and the other met the same fate when she fell into an old well coming through the spruce grove that, although it still led to Green Gables, was indeed in the "opposite direction".

_So you see Anne would have been better off if she'd let you escort her home,_ Gilbert thought sadly.

He wanted to visit Anne, who, rumour—and logic—had it, was bedridden at present, immediately.

But since Gilbert was an only child, and not a daughter, he was commandeered into helping his mother with pies, cakes, cookies—all sorts of baked goods, which tormented Gilbert excessively; for not only did he long to be outside either playing—or at Green Gables, but the heat of the oven, in addition to the heat from out-of-doors was insufferable in a long-sleeved shirt plus pants plus clomping leather shoes, as opposed to Mrs. Blythe's attire. Gilbert and the rest of boykind often sneered at womens' fashion as insubstantial—until they remembered, or re-encountered, the sweltering summer months!

One memorable afternoon, Gilbert had fallen into an Anne-ish reverie—actually, it was even _about_ Anne herself, what a surprise!—and forgotten the yeast in his bread dough.

"I said **two packs of yeast**," his mother informed him. "If you're going to use your 'masculine instinct'"—Gilbert's father's favourite things to say—"don't be surprised when your dough doesn't rise."

_Perhaps my dough would rise if I were here of my own free will,_ Gilbert griped inwardly.

Also his mother made him cook meals and clean the house and stuff, but the baking was the worst. At least cooking and cleaning might come in useful. But he would rather rely on some one else for his baking.

After two weeks of this effeminate drudgery—made worse by his being prevented actually "sampling" any of his baked goods—Gilbert broke the bonds of floury apronhood and went outside.

He was able to procure Charlie Sloane, Fred Wright, and Moody Spurgeon, and the four of them went rambling about Avonlea happily.

Gilbert's excuse for being scarce over the last fortnight was the truth—excepting the floury apron. Fred at least was the only child in a daughterless family also, and could commiserate.

At the end of his first glorious week of freedom, Gilbert's renewed enthusiasm where the outdoors was concerned was curbed by his recalling the worst reason for being shut inside.

So upon the Friday evening, Gilbert fully planned to visit Green Gables and inquire after Anne first thing tomorrow.

But as many young people will agree, one's parents never seem to take into account that one may have plans that are not the same as, and usually clash with, theirs. So it was with horror that Gilbert heard his mother announce at breakfast the next morning:

"Gilbert, to-day we're driving down to the Keiths' to see your aunt Mary, who's just had twins."

Gilbert dropped his apple. "Oh." His aunt Mary was very pretty and kind to Gilbert, and Anne would probably still be convalescing for a fortnight, but…

"…what will the boy have to do while we are there? You and Mary will be with the babies…" Gilbert's father was saying, with a sidelong glance at Gilbert.

Mrs. Blythe looked long and hard at Gilbert for a moment. "I suppose he can stay," she said with a sigh. "But if he gets suddenly sick or is kidnapped while we are gone, I lay the blame on your shoulders alone, John Blythe!"

The father and son exchanged glances again.

As Gilbert dutifully kissed his parents good-bye, he was worried that his father knew _everything_; but to Gilbert's immense relief his father only said "Now, take some of those apples over to the Sloanes', and see if Charlie can't cheer you up," and left.

"My father's sent me over with some of our strawberry apples," Gilbert said when Charlie opened the door, being home alone also, "and to see if you can't cheer me up."

"Actually," said Charlie, turning red, "I was just on my way over to Green Gables with a cake my mother made for the Cuthberts, to see if I can't cheer Anne up."

Gilbert thought this highly unlikely.

"…come with me, and bring the apples?" Charlie was saying.

"Oh," said Gilbert, feigning indifference. "Sure, why not?"

**XXX**

Upon opening her own door, Marilla Cuthbert was astonished to find two rather abashed boys, one bearing a covered cake plate, the other a basketful of apples. The one with the apples was John Blythe's son, she could tell; they looked so alike—Swallowing hard, she spoke. "May I help you, boys?"

"Please, Miss Cuthbert," said the other boy, a red-haired, freckled, unmistakably Sloane creature. "We've come to visit Anne. How are her ankles?"

Marilla Cuthbert raised an eyebrow. "She's quite all right. Doctor Spencer says she'll be on her feet again by the end of July, and I guess he knows what he's about." She retreated into the comfortably cool hallway. "Just wait in here and I'll see if she's awake."

Having hustled the boys into the sitting room, Marilla herself bustled upstairs to see to the invalid.

"Anne?" she queried, entering the east gable. "There's more visitors downstairs for you."

Anne propped herself up on the pillows; a novel or two tumbled off the bed. "Really, Marilla? Who are they?"

"Charles Sloane and Gilbert Blythe."

"Oh." Anne seemed nonplussed. "I really don't want to see Charlie Sloane, or Gi—that boy, Marilla."

Marilla herself had been evasive of boys at such an age; she took this as explanation for her reticence and left the room again.

When Marilla reached the sitting room she stood amazed. Gilbert Blythe was seated, alone, with his basket upon his knees.

"Where's Charles Sloane got to?" she demanded, not unkindly.

Gilbert had been staring out the window and came to with a start—rather, thought Marilla glumly, like another small soul she knew.

"Oh," he said, "Charlie froze in mortal terror of seeing Anne and ran away. He fancies her, I think." (Was Marilla imagining it or was there a rueful note to the Blythe boy's words?) "But he left his mother's cake in the kitchen." He handed her the basket too.

"I see." Marilla saw Gilbert Blythe to the door. "I'm real sorry," she said, but Anne is…is asleep."

She saw the boy's face fall, and realised that he had no doubt been able to hear conversation from the floor below. But "Oh, it's all right," he said, attempting a brave smile. "Thank you anyways, Miss Cuthbert."

Marilla sighed as she watched the boy trudge despondently away. Her fingers flew to her throat, where they toyed idly with a small bump in the blousecloth over her collarbone. The bump was an old, oval locket.

Then she closed the door.


	8. Miss Stacey

**To those of you who were kind enough to express your concern for Marilla also: THANK YOU. I love you. You may split my firstborn child equally amongst yourselves…when I have one. **

**But in the meantime, I think if you check out the second idea on my schedule of Stories Yet To be Posted, you may be kept rather happy until I marry and have that baby for you. **

**(Yes, I'm extremely tired AND extremely caffeinated; how could you tell?—it bears noting that this is not at all a good combination, by-the-by.)**

**Anyways! At present I am considering making **_**Blythe Spirit**_** into a two-, possibly even three-part (story) collection. I know I want to make it more than one story, as I intend to encompass the first four books at least. But it all depends on the length of **_**Blythe**_** (don't even ASK me to actually abbreviate it when I talk about it!). I won't say where **_**Blythe**_** itself ends, but I will assure you that it does not end where **_**Anne of Green Gables **_**does. Did. Either way.**

**Also I apologise for the boys' saccharinely disgusting dialogue. I get Shakespeare fixes every now and then and the results are drastic.**

_**Chapter Eight: Miss Stacey**_

_Delightful task! to rear the tender thought,_

_To teach the young idea how to shoot._

- Thomson, _The Seasons_

The remainder of the summer was not worth mentioning; in fact it flew so quickly past that if Gilbert had been the one documenting his life—as opposed to, perchance, our illustrious authoress—he would truly have found little to record. As it was, how ever, Gilbert and his chums had a good and fulfilling summer holiday, and were quite ready to return to their studies (at least Gilbert was) in the fall.

But the year had brought changes, Gilbert reflected as he arranged his slate pencils and fountain pen in his desk, which was further back than before; among them, his birthday in February marking him fourteen; Moody had surprised everybody by suddenly becoming a bronzy brunette, as he had up till them been decidedly carrot-topped.

The last comparison brought a rueful smile to Gilbert's lips. Surely the most intriguing advent in Avonlea had been the arrival of Anne Shirley a little over a year ago.

Another reason the students were unreluctant to begin school once more was of course the beautiful fact that Mr. Phillips would teach in Avonlea no more. They were anxious to see whether the new "installment" would be better—or worse.

But in the last ten minutes since he had entered the room, Gilbert was aware of yet another change. He had not seen Diana Barry since Anne's injury. And something seemed to have passed between the two girls—and stayed there, like a stalwart fortress. Anne now sat next to the "model student" Minnie Andrews, and Diana was paired with Ruby Gillis. Occasionally, when one was not looking, the other would glance up from her work and gaze wistfully at her apparently one-time chum. Gilbert being seated between them, Anne once or twice looked up from her French to meet his own eyes, but she did not even seem to have the vindictive spirit left to scorn him; she merely dropped her gaze again and studied harder.

As for the new teacher. Miss Stacey was a pleasant, slim, rosy-cheeked woman, with her glossy black hair pulled back into a billowy bun that made the girls sigh with envy. She was optimistic, kind, patient, and a "good" teacher; that afternoon even the boys went home singing her praises.

There were many praises to sing too. Miss Stacey indulged the students all morning every Friday on a nature hike. They would wake up with exercises; sit for an hour or two sketching or writing about a plant or animal they had seen or were seeing; send the more agile boys up into the trees after unripe pine-cones, butterfly chrysalises (which were later "grown" and raised in an old glass-panelled box Miss Stacey brought into the classroom), or empty birds' nests.

In the winter Miss Stacey's students got up a concert for a British flag for the schoolhouse—one both inside and out, as the only current flag was disgracefully and unpatriotically ragged.

Nothing quite different from the usual Avonlean concert occurred, except that Gilbert had the delight of hearing Anne recite—first as Mary, Queen of Scots, who, Gilbert knew from a love of extensive European history, had had fiery pale red hair herself—then in a dialogue with the other girls as an assistant to the "Faerie Queen". As Anne ran off-stage, a white rose fell from her hair to the platform.

Gilbert and the other boys clambered onstage to revive the revelers' scene from _Romeo and Juliet_—the time before the party that had sealed Romeo's fate, makeshift doublets, foils hanging from their sides, and all.

We need not say who had been deemed most suitable to play the wistful young hero.

But although all eyes should have been upon Gilbert, no one noticed him concealing the little rosebud in a fold of his slashed sleeves. He hastily straightened and strode onstage, proclaiming grandly. "What, shall this speech be spoke for our excuse?/ Or shall we on without apology?"

The scene progressed for some time without incident—right up until after Mercutio's—Charlie Sloane's—declamation of Queen Mab, which had gone so smoothly that all dared to breathe a sigh of relief.

Fred Wright, his plumed cap on backwards—that is to say, with the feather in front—was Benvolio. "This wind—ah, this wind you talk of—ah, uh…—blows us fr—uuuh—m ourselves! Supper is done, and we—ACHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" he concluded, the feather having finally got the better of him.

Gilbert hastily finished with the poignant "I fear, too early: for my mind misgives/ Some consequence yet hanging in the stars/ Shall bitterly begin his fearful date/ With this night's revels; and expire the term/ Of a despised life, clos'd in my breast/ By some vile forfeit of untimely death./ But He that hath the steerage of my course/ Direct my sail…" and stood, like his fellow Shakespeareans, in silence, head bowed humbly for the audience's verdict.

Instantly there began the applause of one person; then after a few seconds the rest of Avonlea, though certainly not fluent in the foreign language called Elizabethan English, joined in. The boys swept off their caps and bowed repeatedly.

But in that split second before the one clapper had been joined, Gilbert had looked up, startled, and seen the instigator.

Anne Shirley was still clapping energetically; but when her eyes met Gilbert's her smile faded. She ceased clapping and folded her gloved hands primly in her lap.


	9. The Queen's Class

_**Chapter Nine: The Queen's Class**_

_Learning is like rowing upstream—not to advance means to drop back._

-Chinese proverb

Gilbert was sitting on the bridge that traversed Barry's pond, feet bare as a hobbit's dangling, a wicker basket with a lunch next to him, his line floating about in the water below him.

It was Saturday and Gilbert was fishing for lake trout.

**(snicker)**

**(sorry)**

He delighted in fishing. He loved to sit and think, with no one to bother him (for fear of scaring prospective catches away), until a jerk on the other end of the line called him abruptly back into the world.

Except for today.

Vibrations upon the wooden boards, travelling upwards from Gilbert's legs, should have alerted him to sudden company, but he was too deeply absorbed in a wonderful daydream involving a large, shady strawberry-apple tree, several books, and Anne Shirley, to notice that the object of his reverie was fast approaching, with her friend Ruby!

The former young lady had already condescended to address Gilbert with "Good day, Mr. Blythe," before the boy himself quite registered her presence. He barely had time to wince at the honorific that, as of yet, no one but Anne Shirley ever thought of using upon the fourteen-year-old.

Gilbert was suddenly, horribly aware that his feet were bare, and the straw hat he had grabbed on the way out of the house that morning was old and holey.

So he only nodded, "Anne," and then looked up at her bewildered chum. "Hello, Ruby," he smiled winsomely.

Ruby looked as though she were about to fall off of the bridge—not only because he had smiled at her, but because (Gilbert knew) that Diana knew he was smiling at her because he was not smiling at Anne Shirley! "Oh," she said, flustered. "Um…hello, Gilbert." She smiled. "What are you, um, hoping to catch today?"

"I'm fishing for lake trout," he responded amiably.

"Well, good luck," said Ruby hastily, sneaking a glance at annoyed Anne. "We'll be going now."

And for once it was Ruby who dragged Anne away—instead of the other way 'round.

Gilbert began after a while to feel bad about "using" Ruby to get to Anne. But, he reflected, he was not offering her any assurance of courtship!

He knew that being kind to Ruby was enough to get Anne's back up.

Gilbert returned home fishless, much to his mother's chagrin, as she had hoped to have a fish-frying. So for dinner they had chicken soup instead.

Over a spoonful of onions, chicken and corn, John Blythe scrutinized his son. "Gilbert, have you given any thought yet as to what your living should be when you are an adult?"

Gilbert hastily swallowed. "I want to be a doctor, Father," he said eagerly. "I didn't think I could. I thought you wanted me to be a farmer here in Avonlea after you."

"Nonsense," said his father briskly. "I _wanted _to be a farmer. If you'd like to go to medical school, I don't see why you shouldn't go."

Gilbert looked from his father to his mother in surprised joy.

"Your father is asking this because your teacher Miss Stacey was up here earlier, while you were out fishing," explained Gilbert's mother. "She's forming a class of students to study for two years for the entrance exam at Queen's College."

"This is—I mean—can I join?" asked Gilbert breathlessly.

Mr. Blythe's blue eyes twinkled. "Why else would we have told you?" he wondered aloud.

The Queen's class began on Monday, after school, with sensible Jane Andrews, awkward Moody Spurgeon, flighty Ruby Gillis, nonsensical Charlie Sloane, vindictive Josie Pye, Gilbert himself and—oh joy of joys—Anne Shirley. Gilbert would have though Diana would study also, even if she and Anne were not speaking presently, but no—Diana was packing up her things when Anne hailed her:

"Aren't you going to be in the Queen's class?"

Diana looked sadly upon the red-headed girl as she murmured, "My mother says I should concentrate on learning how to…run a household…instead of poring over books so much." The usually-vivacious Diana's tone indicated that although she made no objection to domestic chores, she would much rather be studying to go to college.

"O Diana," cried Anne, "I feel as though you've tasted the bitterness of death!"

Diana's lower lip trembled and she hurried out of the schoolroom, leaving wistful Anne to gaze after her.

Gilbert gazed after Anne. It had occurred to him that the two bosom friends' separation had not been of their own choosing. But what had happened?

Anne turned sadly back to her Latin—and came face to face with Gilbert. Ashamed, he tried to giver her a weakly reassuring smile, but like before Anne only stared morosely at her desk.

"All right, class," Miss Stacy was saying. "Let's start with the Latin verbs; we'll move on to the algebra after that. Please open your books at page three."

As late, amber fall became snowy winter, "the algebra" proved harder than Gilbert had initially thought. He hoped that Anne was having trouble too—not out of spite, but because after all it was shameful for a boy two years older to be less than proficient at such an "easy math"—Gilbert's father's term.

Mr. Blythe had been a great mathematician at the school when he was a student; but when Gilbert went to his father for help it was to no avail. Mr. Blythe, when it came to school-work, was one of those people who manages to "explain" for a great many minutes, without making anything clearer for his bewildered pupil; secondly, when explaining an operation, he would say some thing like "And then you subtract so-and-so from both sides—right?", to which Gilbert could never answer "Yes; that is right," because after all _Gilbert_ was the one learning! He tried very carefully to impress this fact upon his father's mind but his father always forgot.


	10. A Manly Overnight Meeting

**Posting to-day because in between cooking/cleaning/keeping small cousins from eating the goldfish in our pond, I'll be too busy on Sunday. Happy early Easter, though! **

**In a minute I shall go and sleep for the next six or seven hours, as afterwards I shall be dragged to Easter vigil mass.**

**Thank you, ****Ought To Be Destroyed****, for supplying (however inadvertently) the chapter title!**

_**Chapter Ten: A Manly Overnight Meeting**_

_Men are but children of a larger growth._

-Dryden, _All For Love_

One night Gilbert was at home alone, except for Charlie, who was "sleeping over"—as Gilbert's mother, like most women, put it; if one asked Fred how long he was going to stay at so-and-so's house he might reply cheerfully, "I'm bringing my clothes for to-morrow because we are having a manly overnight meeting." 

Charlie was staying overnight because the Sloane and Blythe parents had all gone to see the Canadian Premier speak at a rally. The big sleigh had come to both boys' doors in the late afternoon, already piled with the senior members of the Cuthbert, Lynde, Barry, Bell, and Pye households—the Harmon-Andrews', Wrights, Gillis', and Spurgeon-Macphersons having departed one or two hours before.

Charlie was deeply absorbed in his French, which language had always been the bane of his existence, and Gilbert was still struggling to make sense of the first algebra problem, a system of equations:

_2x plus y equals 8_

_x plus y equals 6_

Gilbert did not understand what the two equations had to do with each other. How did having two equations _help_ one find the natures of _x_ and _y_? if anything, it was more complicated than having only _one_ equation at a time to deal with!

Finally he admitted defeat. "Charlie?"

"_Oui_?" the read head popped up from behind a high-backed armchair. "_Tu as besoin d'assistance_?"

"Yes, I _am_ 'in need of help'; although I'm glad to see you're not," smiled Gilbert.

Charlie clambered over the chair's side and came to look at Gilbert's work-paper. "_O, la la, tu fais de l'algèbre. C'est très facile pour _moi_, mais je voix que tu est très stupide_—"

"_Charlie!_"

"All right, all right!" said Charlie hastily, reverting to English—which somehow seemed easier on a boy being laughed at for his stupidity in math than the other, almost sneering language. "Okay, let's see…two-x…

"What you want to do is take the second equation and solve for _y_."

Gilbert obeyed; this was the easy part. 

_x plus y equals 6_

_x – x plus y equals 6 – x_

_y equals 6 – x_

"Now what?"

"Now apply what you found _y_ to be to the other equation."

"In English, please?"

Charlie raised a blond eyebrow. "Do you really want me to revert to French?"

"What did you mean by 'apply'!" Gilbert pleaded.

"I mean, put what _y _equals into the first equation."

"Like this?"

_2x – 6 – x equals 8_

"Yeah—but that should be plus six, not minus, Gil."

"Oh." What a dumb mistake to make.

_2x 6 – x equals 8_

_x plus 6 equals 8_

_x 6 – 6 equals 8 – 6_

_x equals 2_

"…wait a moment," said Gilbert. "What about _y_?"

"You goose," said Charlie at last. "Now take _x_ and place it back into the first equation!"

"Charlie," said Gilbert darkly—

"Oh, listen, someone's at the door," said Charlie quickly, and dashed away; it was true and not a diversionary tactic. Meanwhile Gilbert, gritting his teeth, finished the problem. 

_x plus y equals 6_

_2 plus y equals 6_

_2 – 2 plus y equals 6 – 2_

_y equals 4_

Gilbert wrote _x 2, y 4_ at the bottom of the allotted space for the first problem and made a check next to it to indicate the final answer. Triumphantly, forgetting about Charlie, he went on to solve eight more problems…only seven left…

"…and I've never seen a case of croup before!" sobbed a voice Gilbert recognised as Diana Barry's.

Gilbert was up in an instant and by Charlie and Diana's side. "Why, Diana! What's wrong? Who has croup?"

"My little sister, Minnie May," cried Diana. "And we've got young Mary Joe from the Creek babysitting us, but she doesn't know what to do either! I came to see you mother"—who was a renowned nurse—"since all the doctors are at the rally, but if she's not here—"

The three children looked at one another helplessly. 

Despite the fact that Gilbert as an only child was a rare specimen in Avonlea, most of them left child-rearing to those who were supposed to carry out that office—their parents and hired work. No one knew how to take care of children and babies; no one except—

"Anne," Gilbert breathed. He took ahold of Diana's coat sleeve. "Diana, go and get Anne Shirley to help you. Mrs. Lynde said once that she was made by her guardian to take care of her many children; she must know a great deal—"

Diana had given Gilbert a silent expression of gratitude and was flying out into the chilly night again before Gilbert's sentence ended.

"I hope Minnie May is all right," said Charlie.


	11. Consequence To Slighted Women

**Happy Easter again! I received as gifts the entire _Anne of Green Gables _trilogy**—**finally! to watch the third movie!**—**which actually made me rather depressed; also, the novel Before Green Gables, by author Budge Wilson. I'm about half-way through BGG and already I think it is a must-read for any serious Anne-girl.**

**-M.R.**

**_Chapter Eleven: Consequence To Slighted Women_**

_Mr. Darcy, with grave propriety, requested to be allowed the honour of her hand, but in vain. Elizabeth was determined…she looked archly, and turned away. Her resistance had not injured her with the gentleman, and he was (still) thinking of her with some complacency…_

-Jane Austen, _Pride and Prejudice_

Gilbert had been given a book by Miss Stacey, "It's very well-written," she said, "a very famous tale about a clever young woman whose worst fault is prejudice, against a proud young man, whom she hates."

Gilbert thought Miss Stacey knew more than she let on.

He had turned it over in his hands. _Pride and Prejudice, _by Jane Austen.

It was a good book so far, even if it _was_ mostly about girls—_five_ of them—the Bennet sisters—Jane, Elizabeth, Mary, Catherine, and Lydia. They had a very frivolous mother and a bookish father, and were a little more than poor if not a little less than rich. The novel was set in Hertfordshire, in the countryside of England—whence Gilbert's mother hailed.

At the beginning of the book, a young man called Charles Bingley had just arrived in the neighborhood, a rich man with "four or five thousand (pounds) a year". Mrs. Bennet, like the rest of her neighbors who had daughters, was eager to present her five children to Mr. Bingley at the ball to be held soon, in hopes of Bingley's marrying one of them.

At the ball, Bingley immediately became smitten with Miss Jane Bennet, as he asked her continuously to dance. But with him to the ball had come Bingley's uncivil sisters, Louisa and Caroline, and a man called Mr. Darcy.

Mr. Darcy was "tall, dark and handsome" to Bingley's fair attractiveness, and about four times richer; but when the people in Hertfordshire made his acquaintance he was found to be proud, arrogant, and conceited.

Gilbert, sitting at the kitchen table, had just come to the end of the description of Mr. Darcy:

_Amongst the most violent against him was Mrs. Bennet, whose dislike of his general behaviour was sharpened into particular resentment by his having slighted one of her daughters._

_Elizabeth Bennet had been obliged, by the scarcity of gentlemen, to sit down for two dances; and during part of that time, Mr. Darcy had been standing near enough for her to overhear a conversation between him and Mr. Bingley, who came from the dance for a few minutes, to press his friend to join it._

"_Come, Darcy," said he, "I must have you dance. I hate to see you standing about in this stupid manner. You had much better dance."_

"_I certainly shall not. You know how I detest it, unless I am particularly acquainted with my partner. At such an assembly as this it would be insupportable. Your sisters are engaged, and there is not another woman in the room whom it would not be a punishment to me to stand up with."_

Gilbert was beginning to think rather poorly of this Mr. Darcy. Money and land, though convenient, should not make a man better than country folk—why, Gilbert himself was country-folk! He read on for Bingley's reaction.

"_I would not be as fastidious as you are," cried Bingley, "for a kingdom!"_

"Mum?" said Gilbert, without moving his eyes from the page.

"Yes, Gilbert?" that lady, who was peeling carrots scarce feet away, replied.

"What does 'fastidious' mean?"

"It means being very meticulous and picky; why?"

"'S'in my book."

"…_for a kingdom! Upon my honour, I never met with so many pleasant girls in my life, as I have this evening; and there are several of them you see uncommonly pretty."_

"_You are dancing with the only handsome girl in the room," said Mr. Darcy, looking at the eldest Miss Bennet._

"_Oh, she is the most beautiful creature I ever beheld! But there is one of her sisters sitting down just behind you, who is very pretty, and I daresay very agreeable. Do let me ask my partner to introduce you."_

"_Which do you mean?" and turning round, he looked for a moment at Elizabeth, till catching her eye, he withdrew his own, and coldly said, "She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me; and I am in no humour at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other men. You had better return to your partner and enjoy her smiles, for you are wasting time with me."_

At that moment Gilbert was applied to, to put his book away and eat his dinner.

Anne had not been at school that day, no doubt due to Minnie May Barry's croup, which was whispered about as having been successfully tended to by Anne; Diana was not available for comment, being also not in attendance for her lessons.

But this thrilling subject had soon given way when Miss Stacey, among her end-of-school announcements, had notified the class (those who did not already know) of the Christmas ball to be held in Carmody two nights hence—upon 23 December.

"…though I only wish Mother would let me go," sighed Josie as they walked home from school. "She says I shan't unless I find some one to ride with, because father's too busy and she doesn't know how."

Gilbert and Josie were again—for lack of a better word—friends, despite Anne's near-death experience, and he was genuinely aggrieved to see Josie so distressed. "Well," he said, "My father's taking Charlie, Fred and his sister, and I to Carmody for the ball—there'll be no girls with us except little Luisa Wright, because Fred—he's a very good big brother—teased his parents so hard to let her go though she's only eleven—but if you want to come with us—"

Josie, who had been rather droopy until this moment, perked up all at once. "You really mean it, Gil?"

"'Course I do," said Gilbert uneasily.

Josie hugged Gilbert—"Thank you, thank you!" and ran a few yards ahead to proclaim loudly to Julia Bell that "Gilbert just asked me to go to the ball with him!"

Julia and Josie both looked back at Gilbert and waved. Josie was all happy grins.

Gilbert grimaced and waved back. When they had fallen back to gossiping he groaned aloud and kicked the dirt—_HOW do I always get myself into these situations!_

But Josie or no Josie, the night promised to be a gay one. (Actually Josie looked quite nice in lavender satin, but Gilbert was looking forward to being disappointed waiting for Anne to show up—it was rumoured that Miss Cuthbert never let her "go gadding about".) The night air was crisp but not chilly; the lanterns lit along the last part of the Carmody road glowed red and green and gold upon the snow; the sleighful of children chattered and laughed to their hearts' content.

When they had laid off their coats and wraps in the upstairs coat-room of the assembly-rooms, the boys and girls proceeded downstairs into the large room designated for the ball, which was already begun.

Gilbert politely asked Josie for a dance; as she had had no other engagements as of yet it was not necessary to sign her dance-card, and they dashed off about the room amidst the strains of a Viennese waltz.

Gilbert thanked his lucky stars that he had paid attention during the dancing lessons his mother had forced upon him; for the Viennese waltz is harder than one's average, garden-variety normal waltz. Girls, loving to dance anyways, generally had it down "pat", so that those who did not know the tall curly-haired boy and his diminutive blonde partner heaved a sigh of admiration upon seeing them together.

Indeed Gilbert was all grace and poise until he and Josie turned, as the waltz dictated, and Gilbert caught sight of the two girls who had just entered: one in pink with purple trim, that contrasted prettily with her inky black hair; the other in a pale soft blue that set off _her red hair_ most admirably.

_Then_ he tripped.

It was She.

I need not explain to my readers the hope, joy, and simple pure love all contained into that one little word: She—or even He, as the case may be.

But for Gilbert it was She, and from then on as he danced with Josie it was not as much dancing a waltz, as stumbling about to a compound-meter piece of music.

As the waltz carried him—them—closer to Anne and Diana, he could, astonishingly clearly, hear their whispered conference over the waltz's lilting strains:

"It's too bad you've been so awful to him," smirked Diana. "He might have asked _you_ to dance."

"If I _wanted _him to ask—which I don't," Anne retorted scornfully, "he certainly would. Gilbert Blythe would stand on his _head_ for me if I asked him to!"

Gilbert was beginning to not like where this thread of discussion was going very much. He glared at Anne when she was not looking; but some one else was, and—

"Oh! he looked _right at you_ again, Anne!" shrieked Diana. "I bet you _couldn't_ get him to dance with you!"

Now Gilbert had been meaning to ask Anne for a dance anyways, though in earnest conviction of being snubbed; but as a way of reminding her that there was at least _one_ person in the world who could maintain kindness in the face of open, unwonted and undeserved hostility. He saw that, ironically, Anne herself had just rendered such a request impossible.

_Turning round, Mr. Blythe looked for a moment at Anne, till catching her eye, he withdrew his own, and coldly said, "She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me; and I am in no humour at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other men. You had better return to your partner and enjoy her smiles, for you are wasting time with me."_

Gilbert, feeling very snubbed and ridiculous at present, rather liked the sound of that.

"All right, Diana," Anne was saying. "If you insist."

Just then the waltz ended, and Gilbert gratefully traded Josie for a cup of punch.

"Gilbert Blythe!"

Gilbert turned to see an elderly dowager, built along the lines of a Pomeranian grenadier—if the Pomeranians had been fond of mauve silk and artificial white doves—looming towards him. Quickly he cast about for a means of escape, but it was too late—Mary-Marie Pearce was upon him.

**(A/N: I'm SORRY. I have an absurd penchant for that name. I fully enjoy giving it to my own creations**—**who are usually ridiculously-minded, not to mention ridiculously-dressed.**

**If you haven't read No Liddell Wonder, my _Alice In Wonderland_ fic, you have no idea what I'm talking about. Again**—**my apologies. Carry on.)**

"Grandmary!" he exclaimed, affecting real joy.

His maternal grandmother raised a quizzing-glass that had gone out of style some decades ago—no doubt, then, while she was still a young debutante in her first Season—to scrutinize her grandson.

"You look too much like your father," was her verdict. "Boyish and irresponsible—whatever happened to dear Jennifer's nose? Yours looks like the nurse dropped you in the coal-hod—on purpose."

Gilbert drank more punch.

"And I did NOT see you in the summer when Mary's twins were born, Gilbert. As their cousin—although heaven knows why—you should feel a sense of responsibility and paternity towards them. You are more than ten years older."

Although it would, had it been any one else, have been welcome at this point, an interruption in the form of an affectingly-dignified "Good evening, Gilbert Blythe," from behind him, in a timid, lilting voice he knew all too well, was not received. He steeled himself not to look round at Anne Shirley.

But Gilbert's Grandmary actually looked round him and saw her. Her eyebrows practically disappeared into her hairline as she said, "And _now_ you've got all these foolish young woman tripping about after you; I dare say you are good-looking enough for Avonlea, but I do declare I can _not_ understand what the youth are coming t—"

"Yoo-hoo! Mrs. Pearce!" cried Mrs. Spencer from across the room; Grandmary, with a threatening wave of her quizzing-glass, departed to fry bigger and more foolish fish; and Gilbert was left alone with Anne.

Staunchly he turned only half-way to survey the dancers.

"A glass of punch?" a matron queried Anne.

"Thank you," he heard her reply.

Gilbert, moving a little bit further away, gulped more of his own punch, hoping she would not stand there much longer—

Then sweet revenge materialized in the form of Diana Barry. He pretended he had just then noticed the latter girl; and going over to her—she was next to Anne now—and clasping her hands, exclaimed: "Diana! You look _wonderful _tonight!"

Despite a glance at Anne, Diana's entire face lit up.

"Merry Christmas!" he finished.

"Well…Merry Christmas to you too, Gilbert!" Diana returned, flustered.

Gilbert walked off and remained in a corner, armed with cookies and punch, for some time; when he felt sufficiently strong enough to re-emerge, he saw that Diana and Anne were both dancing—with each other. Every one that saw them smiled and laughed.

Returning for a fourth glass of punch, Gilbert noticed a _Dance Card: ANNE SHIRLEY_ had been left upon the table.

She would never miss it…would she?


	12. Examinations

**Right. I'm going to be insanely busy this weekend—especially making up homework, since I had to miss school to-day—so I'm posting while I still have a chance.**

**And speaking of examinations (see chapter title): If you happen to live in the California Bay Area, I advise you to stay off of the road for the next six months. "Why?" you ask? Because I've just recieved my driver's learning permit!**

**Even better, just STAY INSIDE. Please. I don't want to lose reviewers - er, I mean, readers. :D**

**-M.R.**

**_Chapter Twelve: Examinations_**

_ROMEO: A thousand times the worse, to want thy light.—_

_Love goes toward love as school-boys from their books;_

_But love from love, toward school with heavy looks._

-Shakespeare, _Romeo and Juliet_

The Avonlea Queen's scholars studied long and hard through the next year, even unto the edge of death—that being, the beginning of spring, when new nature must needs be distracting one from one's _Odyssey_ and one's geometry—and before they knew it, it was high time to journey to Charlottetown for the Entrance Examinations. Gilbert stayed with Moody and the Macphersons in their town house during this time. Moody was so nervous that one often found himself repeating the multiplication table to himself over and over and over again, to retain his sanity, or so he claimed.

"What sanity?" laughed Charlie.

Despite his own composure, as soon as the English examination papers were being placed in front of them Gilbert began to tremble. Supposing he didn't pass? Supposing his family had used their money for nothing? Supposing he came out after Anne and she used his stupidity as _another_ excuse to avoid him?

"Please do not touch your papers till all the exams have been distributed, or they will be discounted completely," boomed a teacher endowed with a sonorous voice; Gilbert heard a pencil hastily being replaced upon some one's desk and glanced up.

The culprit, Anne Shirley—of course—was looking round to see if any one had noticed; when she caught Gilbert's eye he tried to give her a reassuring smile—then turned away guiltily.

Ever since the Christmas ball a year ago, Anne had been even more frigid towards Gilbert. He felt bad about rejecting her, even if his pride had been clamoring for retribution.

"You may now begin."

Gilbert filled out his name, place of birth, date of birth, place of residence, career goal, and the day's date before beginning.

_Question ONE. Name the Tennyson poem in which Elaine, in love with Sir Lancelot du Lac, floats down to Camelot, dead, in a barge. Then summarise Lancelot's role in the poem._

Gilbert smiled ruefully to himself as memories of a spring afternoon and a handful of Mayflowers crowded his mind. Picking up his pencil, he began writing...

**XXX**

"I don't think I did so well on question One," groaned Charlie dismally as they descended the stone steps. "I can never remember poems. And then question Forty-Seven—the last of the Mohicans—I don't think I—"

"Charlie," laughed Gilbert, "it's bad enough having the test without you going over it afterwards.

"It was Uncas, by the way," he added as an afterthought.

"Oh no!" groaned Charlie. "I put Hawkeye down!"

"I'm glad they put in all the questions about _The Scarlet Letter_," said Gilbert. "I did rather enjoy that book."

"I got Hester Prynne and Percy Blakeney confused," said Moody miserably, as he came up behind them. "After all, they are both scarlet. How on earth is one expected to tell the letter A and a flower spy apart under pressure?!"

"I did," said Gilbert, and they all burst out laughing.

Charlie mentioned, at great length, the math exam which would be given the next day; which fact immediately started Moody in again upon the eleven-times table. Leaving Charlie to calm Moody down, Gilbert strolled leisurely, a little apart from them, across the lawn.

"Gilbert!"

Gilbert turned to see Miss Stacey actually running across the grass, waving her hat like a school-boy. "Gilbert," she puffed upon reaching him, "I'm so proud of you—every one, but you and Anne especially. The others are more into their math and science, or so they tell me—but I know I have two language-lovers, at least, which pleases me to no end. I hope you did well? I was afraid you were going to be sick—you turned a delicate green about half-way through the exam."

"I did all right," laughed Gilbert. "The delicate green occurred when I got to sonnet structure—iambic pentameter, spondees, dactyls, you know…?"

"Yes, I do know!" laughed Miss Stacey, who had warned them of her own struggles with sonnet structure before attempting to teach it to her pupils. "Well, I'm sure they won't count it much against you, as I doubt you'll need it much,—but it was in the curriculum they gave me, so I suppose they know what they are doing."

On the last day of the horrible week—the last day of exams—Moody and Charlie having gone ahead to set up a small party at the Macpherson's house, Gilbert walked in thought all the way.

He thought, he hoped, he knew he had done rather well, and could not wait to see the pass list. Gilbert wanted to be in at least the top fifty. He thought Anne would probably come out first of all the Island.

Just then, the object of his reverie came up before him in Mr. Barry's carriage with Diana and Mr. Barry himself.

"Hello there, Gil," said Mr. Barry. "You on your way home, too?"

"Oh, yes sir," replied Gilbert.

"Well, I wish we could offer you a ride," lamented the older man, gesturing to the carriage behind him which only fit two comfortably.

"Oh no, that's all right," said Gilbert graciously, "I'm meeting Moody at the station." He looked straight at Anne, and was absurdly gratified to see that she did not look away. "Anne—I wish you luck on the exam. I hope you come in first, you've…" he swallowed. "You've worked hard."

Anne blinked, then said, in a humble tone that truly surprised him, "Thank you—but I'm sure the first will go to you."

"Well," said Gilbert, at a loss for how best to reply, "…I guess we'll see, won't we?"

Anne actually smiled in concession. Mr. Barry cracked his whip, and the horses moved again.

Gilbert stood watching Anne's back and hair for a while, until she turned and looked at him, long and steadily, until the carriage was out of sight…


	13. Anne Fishes For Lake Trout

**Me again.**

**mk985: Yes. That is EXACTLY the parallel I was hoping to achieve.**

**Unless you regularly read my profile, which, no offence, is a little weird, you will be thrilled to know that Blythe has become sufficiently long as to have a sequel planned. This is where we once and for all (ALMOST) part ways with the movies, seeing as Kevin Sullivan has a talent for total inaccuracy where Anne Of Green Gables: the Sequel was concerned. _My_ sequel, Unromantic Ideal, brings us from Gilbert pathos to Gilbert ANGST ANGST ANGST. UI will be a little shorter than Blythe - which, of course, tells nothing, bwa ha ha - and actually ends in sync with an _Anne_ book. Urp.**

**Which MEANS - although I'm not exactly sure how the two are related - a third story is called for! Hurray!**

**-M.R.**

**_Chapter Thirteen: Anne Fishes For Lake Trout_**

_A little while she strove, and much repented,_

_And whispering "I will ne'er consent"—consented._

-Byron, _Don Juan_

The spring became summer; the pass list was not yet out; the Queen's hopefuls began to waste away with suspense.

Being "mature" at sixteen, the boys no longer romped and played (often); they sat about, chatting, joking, laughing, reading, eating apples.

Notwithstanding the perpetual company of his chums, Gilbert spent many daytime hours rowing on Barry's Pond with only a lunch and a good novel for company.

"He's in love," Mr. Blythe explained to Gilbert's anxious mother.

This might be true, but it was not why Gilbert enjoyed the lake. He loved the silent solitude, a far cry from humanity's inhuman noise. He loved the calming shimmer of the fresh water, the shade of the overhanging tree-branches, the glimmery fish one glimpsed gliding through the oily shadows and murky pond-weed.

One such day Gilbert had his requisite book and sandwich, but also the pass list for Prince Edward Island, which he had gotten at the post office and now opened with trembling fingers.

_PASS LIST_

_1880 Charlottetown Entrance Exams_

_Applicants for Queen's College, by order of examination score average_

_( out of two hundred possible points, below one hundred twenty-five being the cut-off point) Although about three hundred fifty people applied, we lament that we were only able to produce two hundred passing students, as follows:_

_1. Anne Shirley, 190_

_2. Gilbert John Blythe, 190 (tying for first place with Ms. Shirley)_

_3. John Doe, 187_

_4. Random Character, 180_

_5. Blah Yadayadayah, 180_

_6. Whyre U. Stillreadingthesenames, 179_

And so on, even down to

_45. Jane Andrews, 161_

_46. Ruby Pearl Gillis, 160_

and

_187. Charles Sloane, 139 (condition: English Literature)_

and

_190. Moody Spurgeon-Macpherson, 134 (condition: History)_

and even

_199._ _Josephine Ella Pye, 128 (condition: Mathematics and English Literature)_

Elated that they had all passed, Gilbert unceremoniously folded the paper shut again, and took up his oars.

So he had tied with Anne for first place. She would be so proud to have come out on top. Gilbert acknowledged all of this with a small smile, born of the gracious defeat of a worthy foeman. They were equal but the listings had put her first. Ah well. He cared more about Anne's score than his own.

Gilbert was rowing backwards as he contemplated Queen's College—how their time there would be—so that a splash was what alerted him to his sudden company.

Craning his neck, he spotted a figure clinging precariously to—of all places!—one of the bridge's pilings, her soaked and dripping red hair dark against the white of her dress.

Gilbert could not suppress a smirk as he turned his back to the scene and began rowing closer. _Well, _this_ is going to be interesting!_

Finally reaching the bridge, he let the current pull him a small ways underneath, and held on to the underbeams of the bridge to keep his dory from drifting away.

Anne endeavoured to look as dignified as possible under the circumstances.

Gilbert had meant to say something cool and sarcastic, but what came out instead, between bursts of poorly-suppressed, incredulous laughter, was "Anne Shirley. What in heck are you doing?!"

Anne's face went through a series of curious convulsions before she replied—and Gilbert had to admire her composure—"Fishing for lake trout."

He regarded her dubiously. "For lake trout." It wasn't a question.

Anne nodded energetically.

"Ah," said Gilbert, and reached out for her hand.

She gave Gilbert her arm instead, but nevertheless permitted him to attempt to haul her aboard—until the dory tipped, and over they both went!

Gilbert broke the surface first, gasping for breath; he looked about wildly for Anne until she came floundering to the surface—obviously unable to swim—and succeeded finally in getting a good hold on the boat's side.

Breathlessly they climbed into the dory as one, and faced each other, dripping, the one furious and the other positively enjoying the excuse to have gone "swimming".

Gilbert opened his mouth to say something—but seeing that Anne, despite having nearly drowned, was quite steadily maintaining an air of dignity, he saved his breath to use for exhaust as he began rowing again.

His taciturnity paid off; for after an awkward silence Anne said, "Well, if you must know, I was in Diana's skiff; but it sprang a leak and I had to climb onto the piling or sink. Now, if you'll be so kind as to row me to the landing—" and she snapped her mouth firmly shut again.

"Ah, I see," said Gilbert, who was still enjoying himself immensely. "Well, then, the fact is: I've rescued you."

"Oh, but help is on the way," returned Anne promptly. "And I was calmly waiting for it."

Again Gilbert said nothing, despite the smile tugging at his mouth.

Once they had landed, Anne sprang out immediately.

"You're most welcome," prompted her rescuer sarcastically as he leapt from the boat also.

Anne stopped dead, turned round and replied, "I'm most grateful for your assistance, Mr. Blythe—even though it was not required. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to find my friends. They are likely overcome with fear for my life." She turned to leave.

"Anne—wait a minute—" said Gilbert, seizing her wrist. Anne turned again, an indignant expression clear upon her face, though she made no attempt to wrench herself free.

"I was just down at the post office," he explained, "and it seems the Queen's results have been printed." He grabbed the typewritten paper—which, having remained in the boat, had survived the temporary capsizement—and unfolded it again.

"Congratulations on coming first, Gilbert," said Anne, with a small quiver in her voice, causing him to look up at her with undisguised shock. "I'm sure you're very proud of your achievements—" and again she made as though to leave.

"Wait a minute, you ninny!" exclaimed Gilbert heatedly, laying hold of her again.

Anne looked scandalized, as if she had never been called a ninny before.

Which was probably true.

"We've tied for first place—you and I," he showed her the list. "I figured you'd have it for sure."

As Anne took the paper and drank in its contents in bewilderment, Gilbert continued, "We all passed—our entire class—"

"…The first…" murmured Anne blankly, "…out of _two hundred_…?"

"I'm sorry you had to share with me," Gilbert said, in the way he had that was sarcasm tinged with kind amusement.

"I never expected to beat you," Anne replied, frankly.

They stood in silence, staring at each other; they looked away. Presently Gilbert sighed:

"Can't we be friends? This childishness has gone on long enough—don't you think?"

Anne sighed too. "The fact that you rescued me—unnecessarily—hardly wipes out past wrongs."

"Look—I'm sorry I ever said anything about your hair!" Gilbert exclaimed. "You've no i_dea_ how sorry. –But it was so long ago! Aren't you ever going to forgive me?"

"You hurt my feelings ex_cru_ciatingly," lamented Anne.

"I only said it because—" Gilbert hesitated, then blurted, "—because I wanted to meet you so much." There, it was out.

"Why did you turn your back on me at the Christmas ball?" Anne pressed.

"Anne—that was over a year ago!"

"It was a _deliberate_ humiliation!"

"And I knew exactly what you were thinking too, Anne Shirley!" he exclaimed hotly, "You _and_ Diana Barry!"

Gilbert looked on with calm satisfaction while she realised exactly what he meant—and blushed. He waited until she had collected herself and continued, "Anne—look. Can we be friends now?"

"Why don't _you_ figure it out?—if you're so clever!" Anne countered.

And then she smiled.

Gilbert smiled back—then began to wonder if that had been an _insult_—since he had assumed Anne's response meant "No, never".

At this convenient moment, Anne turned and began running.

"Anne, wait a minute!" One didn't just _say_ something like that and then run off!

From afar, Anne shouted, "Everyone will think I've drowned!" and kept running.

Gilbert shook his head.

_Good GRIEF, Anne Shirley._


	14. The Thing With Friendship

**Astra-kelly: Yes, she does. I meant to do so in Unromantic Ideal (my sequel), but then I figured it would make more sense if she visits; and somehow it went from a cordial call to her climbing in Gil's window at three in the morning - being (insert name of character, which would spoil things), after all, even if she is married!**

**(To the rest of you: Enjoy your confusion while you can.)**

**_Chapter Fourteen: The Thing With Friendship_**

_Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly._

-Shakespeare, _As You Like It_

The very next day Gilbert went over to Orchard Slope to lend Diana _The Scarlet Letter_, which she greatly desired to read.

"Thank you, so much, Gilbert!" exclaimed that young lady, as she gazed upon the little cream-coloured book as though she could scarce conceive she was actually holding it in her hands. "Mother says I may read as much as I like in my spare time—now that she's been able to teach me to spool-knit and cook and suchlike."

Gilbert laughed. "The pleasure is all mine…How was Anne yesterday when she turned up dripping?"

"Oh, gay as a lark after finding out about the pass list," returned Diana, smiling.

She colored a little, looking down at the cover of the book—emblazoned with a curly crimson A—and admitted quietly, "I do feel bad, though, about yesterday. She would never have been in danger of drowning if we hadn't made her be Elaine."

"Made her be what?" said Gilbert, intrigued.

Diana paled as easily as she had just blushed, and covered her face with the Hawthorne novel for a few moments.

Lowering her literary shield slowly, she blurted, "It was one of our 'plays' this summer—you remember Tennyson's _Lady of Shalott_? Well we came up with the idea of dramatizing the scene with the barge, and Anne was to have floated all the way down to a little headland some ways down the river—"

"—except the flat sprang a leak."

"Exactly. And—oh, _don't_ mention it to any of the girls, Gilbert! They'll be awful mad I said anything, especially Anne, and especially to you!"

Gilbert speedily consoled Diana, by promising his secrecy.

Upon leaving in his father's buggy, Gilbert turned the horse towards the Bell's store.

"Oh, hello Gilbert!" beamed Alice Bell, who was folding away a bolt of white cloth as he walked in. "You literally—_quite_ literally—just missed Anne Shirley. She was in here buying white organdy for the White Sands concert." It was common knowledge among Avonlea's younger "set"—that is, all but the principal players—that Gilbert had a tender spot for a girl with limpid grey eyes and fiery temper—er, hair. "Are you going to go? I'm sure it will be dazzling—all the electric lights and hothouse flowers—and the Americans! Mother tried to convince me to audition for a violin solo—can you i_mag_ine? I mean I haven't picked up a bow in three years—The Charlottetown Hospital _is_ a worthy cause and all," conceded Alice, "but I am NOT prepared to suffer humiliation for it!"

Gilbert laughed; Alice had forgotten the "Hello; what can I getcha!" that was her wont. "Yes, thank you, Alice, I would like some nails and a shovel, please."

Alice laughed too. "New project?"

"Yes; my father's having me help with the farm." Mature at sixteen or not, Gilbert was very proud that his father trusted him to assist with strenuous farm work.

As Anne was on foot and Gilbert in wheels, he was soon able to catch up with her on the road.

The graceful figure walking along before Gilbert's horse kept dropping bundles and having to stop and pick them up again. "Hullo—Anne!" he exclaimed aloud.

But to Gilbert's surprise, Anne kept walking, as though she had not heard him. So he pulled up alongside her. "Can I offer you a ride home?...You promised we were going to be friends—remember?"

Anne stopped walking and turned to look at him, a smile tugging at her lips. "Well, all right, then. It is rather awkward with all these," she conceded, indicating her parcels. She climbed into the buggy and they drove in silence.

"It was…good of you to stop," said Anne after a moment.

"It seems I'm developing quite a habit of getting you out of awkward situations," Gilbert teased Anne. Anne smiled briefly.

"I thought a lot about what happened at the bridge, Gilbert," she said quietly. "What I mean to say is, it was very rude of me to just run off like that—but I was very over-wrought over learning my score—_our_ score! I mean I wasn't myself…"

"That's all right," Gilbert hastened to reassure her. "Life's too short to hold grudges anyway." He was as surprised as Anne at the philosophical nature of the last remark.

"It's valiant of you to say so. You'll go far, with that kind of attitude."

_Speaking of going far…_"Do you know what you're going to study at Queen's yet, Anne?"

"I intend on taking my teacher's license in one year—instead of two," said Anne. "It was Miss Stacy's suggestion."

"Gee," said Gilbert, trying not to burst into laughter as he savored his words, "I always imagined you'd have a career onstage. I think you'd make a swell actress—especially as the Lily Maid."

Gilbert was fully aware that he had promised Diana not to reveal his extended knowledge of the incident—but he knew, too, that Diana would never have passed up the opportunity to produce the singular expression on Anne's face as she stiffened with shock.

"I hear you're giving 'The Maiden's Vow' at the White Sands recital," he progressed smoothly; but Anne was not to be so easily distracted.

"My life is an open book, I see!" she cried. "Who told you that!"

"Well, I have a little confession to make," admitted Gilbert: "I was just at the general store myself, and Alice told me you were walking home."

And although they both were aware Gilbert had not answered Anne's question at all, she contented herself with slumping back, unladylike, in the seat and emitting a weak "Oh."

"I'm going to try and get you an encore when you're up there, so be sure and have a second selection ready," he warned her.

"Nobody's going to encore _me_," Anne said dubiously.

Gilbert just looked at her. "Well, _I_ would."

Anne met his eyes for a few moments, precious moments, in which Gilbert tried to make her see in his eyes even a iota of what he felt for her—but she glanced away and the connection between them was shattered.

"Especially," he added, "if I had the honour of escorting you to the concert."

Anne colored and looked even further away. "Um," she said, "I don't know—I promised the Barrys I'd go with _them_—but—"

"Well," Gilbert pressed, "I think you're old enough to make up your own mind, Anne."

"I've always been old enough to make up my own mind!" cried Anne Shirley in indignation, remembering herself before she actually stood up in the buggy. "Very well, then Gilbert—I'd be _pleased_ to accept your invitation!

"...could you let me off at the corner, please?" she finished in a very small voice, a far cry from the ruffled tone she had started with. "I want to take a shortcut and show Diana what I've bought."

Gilbert acceded to her wish and was on his way home in a few minutes—after watching Anne walk part of the way, safely.

"Well! Gilbert! I told your mother you were twitterpated—and I was right!" exclaimed John Blythe triumphantly, when Gilbert entered the house half an hour afterwards.

"Er," said Gilbert, who was quite unfamiliar with the (totally anachronistic) term. "What?"

"What your father means," interposed Gilbert's mother, appearing behind her husband with a dangerously sweet smile on her face, "is that we're proud of the young man you're growing up to be…especially your charming chivalrousness."

The alliteration confused Gilbert still further.

"Okay, okay," said Gilbert, "this is all very flattering—I hope—but _what_?!"

"Mrs. Rachel was here—"

"Oh no," said Gilbert. "Not Mrs. Lynde," said Gilbert. "I don't think I'm going to like what I'm about to hear," said Gilbert.

He sank into a chair in the hallway. "What about Mrs. Lynde?" Gilbert asked, resigned to his fate.

"She said," began Mrs. Blythe, still beaming, "that she saw Anne Shirley riding with you in the buggy to-day, and that you were holding her hand when you helped her out—"

"Mo-ther," said Gilbert, annoyed. "I guess I would have to hold her hand or it wouldn't be helping her out of the buggy—just standing by and watching her get out.

"She had a lot of parcels and I met her coming home from the store; it was the nice thing to do—I mean, I would have done it for _Josie Pye_, who you both know I do NOT like!"

The Blythe adults exchanged dubious glances, but Gilbert's mother only said, "All right, then, Gilbert. If that's really what happened."

Later when Gilbert was climbing into bed his mother came in and took his hands in her own, as she used to do when he was small.

"You really do care about Anne Shirley, don't you?" she asked softly.

"How—how did you know?" stuttered Gilbert—too surprised to deny the fact. His mother's hazel eyes twinkled.

"You were over-zealous in defending your actions, dear Gil—it was mentioning Josie that did it—'the lady'—or I suppose young man, in this case—'doth protest too much, methinks', and all that." She laughed, and then became suddenly serious. "Do you know how she feels about you?"

"Yes," said Gilbert; "but no, it's most absolutely not THAT emotion, mother! Remember when she cracked that slate over my head—that was, what, two, three years ago—I've loved her ever since," he confessed bluntly. "We've only been friends really for a couple of days, because it took for ever for her to forgive me—if our friendship is that shaky, how can you expect she fancies me in return? And so soon?"

His mother smiled ruefully and shrugged.

Gilbert sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "She's promised to go to the White Sands concert with me on Saturday, though."

"That's a start," laughed Gilbert's mother. "Why, when I was your age, or perhaps a little older—yes, I was seventeen—there was a young man, who I fancied. He was two years older than me, and he was to be engaged to the beauty of Avonlea.

"His name was John Blythe, and when he asked me to go riding with him I thought I would just—"

"What—father was engaged before you fell in love?" said Gilbert blankly. "Who was he engaged to, do I know her?"

"Good night, Gil," said Jennifer Blythe, as thought she had not heard Gilbert's last queries.

She blew out the candle and walked into the bedroom where her husband was already fast asleep. Why Jennifer had had to bring up John and Marilla, she did not know—but she fancied it ironic, that if Gilbert had success with Anne Shirley's heart, it would bring Jennifer herself into proximity with Marilla!


	15. The White Sands Concert

**Gilbert gets ANGRY in this chapter.**

**Woo.**

_**Chapter Fifteen: The White Sands Concert**_

"_Give me a theme," the little poet cried,_

"_And I will do my part;"_

"'_Tis not a theme you need," the world replied;_

"_You need a heart."_

-Gilder, _Wanted, A Theme_

But on Friday Diana stopped by the Blythes', looking sorrowful; and handing Gilbert a small, neatly folded note, with _Mr. Gilbert J. Blythe_ printed upon it in a flowing, delicate hand that Gilbert recognized, she sat down and began to wring her hands.

Gilbert cautiously opened the missive—as though it were a pixy, poised in his hands to bite and fly away.

The paper was a creamy whitish colour; it smelled, like its author, of spring rain and lilies; but the brief contents were certainly not as enticing.

_Dear Gilbert,_

_I shall not be able to attend the White Sands Concert with you on Saturday night. Please forgive me._

_Anne Shirley._

The ink was smudged and blurred in places. Had Anne diluted the ink with water for economy's sake? Or was the pigment mingled with the _salty_ variety of letter-stain?

Gilbert swallowed back the lump that was threatening to form in his throat. He looked up at Diana and willed his voice to stay clear and uncracked. "Did she say anything to you about—I mean—why can't she—"

"She really was excited to go with you, I think," said Diana solemnly. "But, she told me, in very subdued tones, after she came to visit me yesterday and told me about it she decided that she is too young, at almost-fifteen, to go about with any boy in particular."

Gilbert stood up, crushing the paper in his hand. "'Any boy'—what is that supposed to mean?! I'm her _friend_—I've only been her _friend_ for a week—how can she possibly expect me to try to be anything else—"

"Well—Gilbert," said Diana, somewhat indignantly, standing up also, "you needn't be so defensive. If you ask me, I think Marilla had a great deal to do with Anne's decision—she's very over-protective."

Gilbert said nothing. "I've always been old enough to make up my own mind" Anne had asserted. How, then, would any one be able to pressure her out of this—any—perfectly innocent thing she had decided to do? What would Marilla Cuthbert _think_ he meant by escorting Anne anyways?!

He sighed. "Forgive me, Diana. Thank you for making sure I got her letter." He quickly scribbled a note in return, breaking the soft pencil lead several times—whether from haste, or frustration at Anne, Diana was not sure. "And—Diana—I'm coming to see her recite anyways."

_Miss Anne Shirley:_

_How kind of you to inform me_

he wrote. His sarcasm showed clear in his choice of words—and the fact that the dots of all four i's had torn small holes in the paper.

_that you shall not follow through with your promise. I'm sorry there has been such a drastic change in your opinions._

Feeling a very tiny pang of remorse, he changed his tone.

_But it would have been easier if you had told me in person._

_I hope you can still consider me a friend._

_Sincerely, _

_Gilbert Blythe._

Gilbert's mother appeared, having been visiting, just as Diana tripped off to Orchard Slope.

"I suppose she came to talk about Anne's going with you on Saturday?" the latter woman inquired cheerfully.

"Not quite," said Gilbert, angrily punching his sleeves into his jacket; unfortunately what little remorse he had had while finishing the note had drained from him, simply and almost unnoticeably, like water through a crack in a bowl. "Be back in a second, mother."

"But Gil—where are you—"

"I'm going to go ask Josie Pye to the concert!"

Gilbert was sufficiently angry over Anne's coldness that even as he hitched up the Blythe's buggy on Saturday he was still viciously glad he had had the idea of bringing Josie along.

That is, until Josie chattered amiably (!) about the fun to be got out of seeing Anne attempt a recitation, next to the professional elocutionists who would be speaking also.

He began to feel a little bit of remorse—and smothered it quickly, as Anne had probably done often in the last few years. She had treated him like a fool—He would never forgive her!

At least, not _yet_.

Indeed, the "professional elocutionists" were dauntingly clever with their words; and the Americans in the audience who audibly remarked upon "quaint country girls" and "rustic talents" did little to comfort the "quaint" Island girls who were to recite.

By-and-by Gilbert started at the name "Anne Shirley," as the owner of that name had been called up to recite.

He wished he had a library book to hand—it had been so effective in quelling _his_ enthusiasm before!

But when Anne ascended the platform and faced her audience Gilbert was shocked. She seemed so fragile in white organdy; her hands trembled very slightly and her face was quite as pale as the camellia in her hair.

He felt a twinge of guilt again. Was her discomposure his fault—or that of the Americans—or both?

"Oh, this is going to be _good_," whispered Josie.

Anne opened her mouth—closed it; opened it again. She looked like a fish—a very attractive fish, Gilbert conceded, but a fish nonetheless.

Anne's limpid grey eyes scanned the crowd, looking for some sign of reassurance or hope or—Gilbert…? Their eyes met and hers—much to Gilbert's surprise—lit up.

Suddenly Anne opened her mouth again, and launched into "The Highwayman":

_The wind was a torrent of darkness upon the gusty trees,_

_The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,_

_The road was a ribbon of moonlight looping the purple moor,_

_And the highwayman came riding—_

_Riding—_

_Riding—_

_The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn door…_

She recited the sad poem with such fervor that Gilbert could hear the people around him whispering in shocked admiration.

…_He whistles a tune to the window—_

_And who should be waiting there—?_

_But Bess, the landlord's daughter—_

_The landlord's black-eyed daughter_

_Plaiting a dark-red love-knot_

_Into her long black hair…_

As Anne took a deep breath at the finish, there was moment of silence—then, led by Gilbert, a deafening roar of applause, louder even than those granted to the "professionals"—who sat there looking limp and disoriented.

"Encore!" shouted Gilbert.

"Gilbert, shut up!" hissed embarrassed Josie.

"Encore!" repeated Gilbert staunchly, and it was picked up by everyone else. He leapt to his feet and clapped as though his life depended upon it.

Anne tried, unsuccessfully, to step down from the platform, but upon being pressed and entreated back by a stout lady in pink silk, she shyly returned and began an encore piece. Gilbert had never heard it before.

_Kind bird, thy praises I design:_

_Thy praises like thy plumes should shine,_

_Thy praises should thy life outlive_

_Could the fame I wish thee give..._

"It's called _The Bird_," said Josie with a sniff; "I'm leaving." And whether or not the two statements were related, she actually got up and left in the middle of the recitation.

Gilbert wondered how Josie could "leave" if he had driven her there.

Anne had further captivated her audience with her encore, and Gilbert felt that he was no longer angry. Madame of the pink silk took her round and introduced her to everybody, and Gilbert stood in the door-way waiting for his turn.

Anne saw him and gesticulated wildly; when he still was confused, she mouthed _Wait right there._ "Will you please excuse me?" she asked her admirers, and walked over to Gilbert; smiling, he made as though to stride over also but halted, confused, when Anne was intercepted by Miss Cuthbert and Diana and Mrs. Barry.

"Anne," Marilla was saying, "I have to say we're so proud."

"Your recitation was as magnificent as Miss Evans'!" declared Mrs. Barry.

"Ah…yes…thank you…" murmured Anne, trying to catch a glimpse of Gilbert to see if he was still there.

And he was. He had just made up his mind to wait patiently until Anne's family and friends were done, and then he could—

"You just think she's so _perfect_—don't you?!"

Gilbert whirled about in alarm.

Josie was standing there, her hands tightly grasping her little beaded bag; somehow she managed to glare stormily at the same time as her lips trembled in indignation and hurt. "Ever since she came here three years ago—it's always been about _ANNE SHIRLEY_."

"It was never about _you_, Josie Pye—if that's what you're implying," Gilbert spat. "Any attentions I paid to you were _forced_—yes, FORCED upon me—don't look so innocent!—by you yourself!

"Oh, and YES—I think she IS so perfect. If you were really jealous you might DO something about it—do something good and unselfish, for ONCE, instead of lashing out at her and clinging to me—I don't see YOU going up there and making a recitation!"

"Oh! I'm going home with Moody Spurgeon—you wretched boy!" shrieked Josie.

"Well, I'm glad you finally think so!" Gilbert laughed sarcastically—"maybe now you'll leave me alone!"

And with that parting shot he stalked off in the opposite direction.

Gilbert was angry—with Josie for being spiteful and oblivious; with Miss Cuthbert and the Barrys for—well—for not recognizing their role in Fate at that unhappy moment was to leave Anne alone; at Anne herself—because, Gilbert thought bitterly, none of this would have happened if she'd rode over with him—like she'd _promised_!!

As these thoughts were running round and round his head he had left the hotel, entered the stables, hitched the horse up to the buggy and climbed aboard.

And as he drove out of the gates, he was so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he was blind to the world and did not notice the disturbance occurring on the hotel balcony—a young woman with ruddy hair rushing out to catch a searching glimpse of some one she had never before truly appreciated the constant presence of; so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he was deaf to the world and never heard the cry she uttered:

"Gilbert!...GILBERT…?"


	16. The Year At Queen's

**-IMPORTANT: PLEASE READ!-**

**Okay, some of you already know about what's going on, or not going on, with the third part of Blythe Spirit. For everyone else: I finally cracked and watched the third movie, and I somewhat like it, even if it REALLY, REALLY departs from the novels. So I'm trying to figure out whether to use a) only the novels, b) only the movie, or c) a compromise/combination between the two.**

**I've posted a poll on this topic AT THE TOP OF MY PROFILE PAGE. Please vote; it means a lot to me. If you already have PMed/e-mailed me with your vote, could you please re-cast your ballot, so to speak?**

**Thank you!**

**-M.R.**

**-CARRY ON.-**

**_Chapter Sixteen: The Year At Queen's_**

_Trifles light as air_

_Are—to the jealous—confirmation strong_

_As proofs of holy writ._

-Shakespeare, _Othello_

Two hours alone in an open carriage with Josie Pye?

Pure torture, as far as Gilbert was concerned.

It was fortunate, then, that Gilbert was NOT concerned. Josie was going to Charlottetown with Jane Andrews, Ruby Gillis—and Anne, which in his angry mood suited Gilbert just fine.

As for Gilbert, Mr. Blythe was willing to take Gilbert, Charlie and Moody into town the day before school began and drop them off at their boarding-house.

Upon thus arriving it was discovered that there had been a misunderstanding, and the boys were given one large room instead of three separate chambers—and all of the other rooms were occupied. But they cheerfully made the most of it, and found even that sharing a room was more entertaining than not.

The first day at Queen's, Moody and Charlie departed for First Year class, leaving Gilbert to walk to the Second Year room alone.

As soon as he entered Gilbert spotted a familiar redhead, who turned around with an expression of eagerness on her face. Her limpid grey eyes quite actually lit up when she saw Gilbert; it was evident Anne had been waiting for a glimpse of some one she knew, especially this some one in particular. But Gilbert looked away and found a seat between two strangers, on the opposite side of the room. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that Anne turned around sadly and was hailed by a brunette next her, arrayed in crimson, and a pale, delicate blonde in green. "Why Anne! You look like you just swallowed a—"

Gilbert didn't get to hear Anne's answer. At that moment the boy to his right, a pale, lanky boy with black hair and enormous dark eyes, stuck out both his hands—the hand on the left being to the girl seated in front of Gilbert—and grinned widely. "Roger Stuart. Nice to meet you both."

"Erm, you too," said Gilbert, and the girl smiled back and said, "Hello, Roger Stuart."

"Charmed," said Roger. "Now, what're your handles?"

Gilbert gave his name to both students, and the girl introduced herself as Emmaline Clay, or "just Emily, _please_!". Emily was a vivacious girl with topaz eyes, a quick smile, and hair the colour of Diana Barry's, only short and straight.

Roger, Gilbert, and Emily had made fast friends before Professor Evans entered.

"Those of you who have elected to take the entire teacher's course in one year instead of two have a difficult year ahead of you," said Evans. "But you're here because we know you're capable of doing it.

"These first two weeks will be a probationary period, in which you can decide if you really want to complete the program without a second year. In that sense, these first two weeks will be the most important you spend at Queen's, bear that in mind."

After the first month, schedules, locations, classes and rules slipped into their places and the three new friends took to eating together in the archive library—it was allowed, as long as the manuscripts were not at the same time being perused! Gilbert was very popular with every one—whether more popular with boys or girls, he could not tell—but kept his new friends closest.

While waiting for Roger, Emily was telling Gilbert about the scholarship that had been awarded to Queen's in addition to the Gold Medal.

"…just imagine," Emily was saying wistfully—_almost_ dreamily; but Emily was too sensible a girl to be dreamy. Emily wanted the scholarship, which was in English Literature, but Emily didn't find her books and poems "poetical" or "tragical"—she merely parsed and analyzed them to pieces, and then wrote dissertations on them.

_Not like Anne._

Gilbert brushed away his own longing thought and concentrated on what Emily was saying.

"…then at Convocation they'll announce, 'And now—Emily Clay, Avery winner!' Oh! I wish it were me!" Emily grasped Gilbert's hand, to emphasize her point, and looked Gilbert straight in the eye.

Gilbert found this uncomfortable. Fortunately, soon Roger joined them and began talking about Darwin; but Gilbert was still thinking about that Avery scholarship.

Anne and Emily would probably compete for that scholarship—not that Gilbert really cared. He was after the Medal, which was a math and sciences scholarship—what Gilbert really wanted, and was best in, though he did enjoy his books.

And found them both poetical _and_ tragical.

As the three of them left the library, Roger happened to look down. "Oi, there's all this paper fluttering arou—oooh. Gil?"

"Hm?"

Roger had picked up a piece of the paper. "S'got your name on it. _Dear Gilbert, I'm sorry about the con_—It's ripped. Some one must have been pretty mad, or somethin'." He showed Gilbert the scrap of paper.

Gilbert recognised the handwriting, and promptly surprised Roger and Emily by declaring, "Help me pick up the rest of these papers! C'mon!"

Later, in the privacy of his room—that is, while Charlie was out and Moody was snoring away—Gilbert meticulously pasted Anne's undelivered letter together again and read it.

_Dear Gilbert,_

_I'm sorry about the concert. I can't imagine what you must think of me, but you've made it all too clear that whatever you now feel, it includes your wish never to speak to me again. But before you settle into hating me for the rest of your life, please, let me explain my rude reticence. Even if you thrust this letter into the fire as soon as you've read it, at least I'll know you did._

_It would seem that Mrs. Rachel Lynde happened to see you giving me a ride home, assumed we were up to something—I have no idea what—and instantly took it upon herself to come to Green Gables and inform Marilla that I'd been 'gadding about'—Marilla's words, not mine—with a BOY. _

_Marilla cares for me as much as Matthew does, despite her crisp demeanor, and I think she was simply worried that I am too young to be spending any time with any boy exclusively. I do not __intend__ to spend time 'exclusively' with any boy for at least four or five more years, but nevertheless she saw to it that I went to the concert with the Barrys. Please don't be angry with Marilla. I suppose I would have had the same reaction as she did._

_About my letter. I'm sorry I didn't just come up to you and tell you what had happened. But to be honest? I was scared silly—why? I don't think I shall ever know. But at the thought of confessing such an uncomfortable incident to you, my courage fled from me like a shadow from a sunny garden. I showed you a white feather, and I'm sorry I didn't have the bravery to hurt your feelings at least in person._

_Please find it in you to forgive me. I'm going to try to deliver the letter to you in person—instead of by proxy, like last time. I know you haunt the archive library during the lunch hour, so if I can't find you—or approach you—at any other time, I'll leave it with Mr. Thoms the archivist._

_Sincerely,_

_Anne Shirley_

Gilbert lowered the letter from his eyes with a sinking feeling.

The letter was dated today. That meant Anne had written it to-day—and come to the archives at lunch—and, oh—she had probably walked in just when Emily was behaving strangely, and thought he now fancied Emily. Oh, oh dear.

Gilbert knew that despite his now-ended anger, he was still crazy for Anne. Even if Anne really _didn't _flee from jealousy—even if it was merely polite embarrassment—Gilbert didn't want Anne EVER thinking he was Emily's beau. Emily was nice, but she was too serious and rational—even more serious and rational than Gilbert himself was wont to be.

Anne made an effort to avoid Gilbert for the rest of the year; and she was so successful that Gilbert hardly even saw her in class. He wanted to show Anne that _he_ was sorry—didn't want things to repeat themselves, with Gilbert instead of Anne as the proud, offended party this time—but Anne made herself scarce, unknowing that Gilbert had read and responded, although not in ink, to her letter.

By late May, the Avery was considered as good as won by Emily. No one had a definite opinion on the subject of the Medal, though Roger and Emily heartily assured Gilbert it was bound to be his.

On the first of June the scholarship winners were posted, and Gilbert was entirely surprised to find

_GOLD MEDAL for SCIENCE and MATHEMATICS_

_Gilbert Blythe_

emblazoned upon the bulletin board. He looked at the other scholarships

_QUEEN'S SCHOLARSHIP for INSTUMENTAL TALENT_

_Robert Duval_

_QUEEN'S SCHOLARSHIP for VOCAL TALENT_

_Priscilla Grant_

(who was one of Anne's friends) and so on, until he found

_J. M. AVERY SCHOLARSHIP for ENGLISH LITERATURE_

_Anne Shirley_

Anne would be so pleased!

Emily would be so disappointed; but then again, Gilbert reflected ruefully, Emmaline clay was not a girl who lamented her failures, but almost insensitively picked herself up again within the minute. She'd be fine.

As Gilbert had been reading the list, the other boys got in around them and, finding that their hero was in their midst, lifted Gilbert upon their shoulders and carried him out into the warm sunshine.

"Hip-hip-hurray! Hip-hip-hurray!" they cheered, "Hurray for Gilbert Blythe—winner of the Gold Medal!!"

Gilbert laughed and laughed; finally the boys put him down and he straightened his sweater.

He caught sight of a brunette—Jane Andrews—and a pale redhead watching from a little ways away. The latter girl had a wistful expression as she gazed upon Gilbert the Medallist. Gilbert frowned. _Has she seen the bulletin board yet? I guess not…_

Raising his own voice, Gilbert pointed at Anne and exclaimed, "Three cheers for Anne Shirley, winner of the Avery!"

"The Avery!" everyone echoed, looking where Gilbert was pointing, and charged off in the direction of the startled girl.

Gilbert somehow got in and helped lift astonished Anne above the cheering collegians. She looked down at Gilbert, who beamed back; Anne gave him a small smile that spoke volumes. And they were friends again—just like that.

**Blythe Spirit has now surpassed No Liddell Wonder in word count and story alerts! (NLW was, up until last Sunday, my wordiest, most alert story. In case you couldn't tell.)**

**Now, imagine if I got a review, no matter how brief, from _every person who has _Blythe_ on story alert_. I'd have at least 555 reviews by now.**

**-deeply aggrieved, wallowing-in-self-pity sigh-**

**Mostly joking.**


	17. A Series of Unfortunate Events

_**Chapter Seventeen: A Series of Unfortunate Events**_

_When sorrows come, they come not single spies,_

_But in battalions._

-Shakespeare, _Hamlet_

_Dear God,_

_When I was five, I wandered into the Cuthberts' field while the cattle were out to pasture. I was very small, and the cows that are huge now were monumental eleven years ago. I was afraid, and when that huge bull—lethal horns and all—came charging at me Matthew Cuthbert swooped out of nowhere and snatched me out of the way. I will always believe You sent some angel down to pick up Matthew and drop him next to me that day._

"_Be careful, now, little Blythe boy," he told me, concerned._

_I was such a pompous little five-year-old. "I'm called Gilbert," I informed him proudly._

_Mr. Cuthbert's eyes crinkled at the corners and his moustache turned up at the corners. I knew he was smiling. "All right then, Gilbert," he chuckled. Then he took me home and gave me to Mother. I remember I got such a furious scolding from her, for almost getting myself trampled and gored to death._

_But when father gave me the responsibility of _our_ cattle—when I was thirteen—I met Mr. Cuthbert driving the cows home every afternoon. He made some small joke about the bull—which had gone to beef a while before—and how I was now helping with cows, and wasn't I afraid of them still, maybe? And we sort of began talking. I don't even know what we talked about—our cows, and church, and…Anne. God, Matthew was really proud of Anne. I sort of began to take it for granted that Mr. Cuthbert would always be there when I came out of the gate, both of us in our old patched overalls. I miss his companionship._

_Lord God, please take care of Matthew Cuthbert, who was so good to me even though I'm only related to the Cuthberts through Uncle Joseph Keith, who is married to Aunt Mary their cousin; and please help Marilla Cuthbert and Anne through their grief. Amen._

Gilbert's head remained bowed, but he watched the two women in question out of the corners of his eyes after he'd finished his prayer. Miss Cuthbert was standing there with the tears quite literally pouring out of her eyes; Anne clung to her elbow as though she was afraid the older woman would slip away too, her eyes shut tight, her lips soundlessly forming the words of her prayers, her face etched with the silent frustration borne when tears will not flow freely.

At length, Reverend Allan said, "We have stood here in silent prayer at Matthew Cuthbert's grave and struggled, each of us, to see the meaning in his life. But the mystery of death prevails. All we know is that we are troubled in our hearts at this evidence that death comes to all of us…and in the end, all we know is that we loved him. And we commend his soul to Jesus."

First Marilla Cuthbert, then Anne, then Mr. and Mrs. Lynde; all quietly tossed their small bundles of flowers upon the simple pine coffin that lay serenely next to a gaping rectangular hole.

Gilbert found that his cheeks were wet. Certainly Matthew Cuthbert had meant much more to Anne and Miss Cuthbert than to Gilbert; yet there had been the easy, regular companionship Gilbert had taken for granted every afternoon for the past four or five years. He clumsily drew his jacket cuff across his eyes and cheeks, clinging to the minute sting of wool upon his skin if it would distract him from his emotional distress.

When he could see again, Gilbert began to follow the long, steady stream of people leaving the churchyard. Then he paused and turned.

Miss Cuthbert and Anne were still at the side of the coffin, their elbows linked. Dazedly, Marilla Cuthbert took her foster daughter's arm and they made their way to—where Gilbert was standing.

"Miss Cuthbert…Anne…I'm very sorry for your loss," Gilbert choked out upon the remainder of his tears, wringing his hat in his hands.

Anne said nothing, but Miss Cuthbert smiled very weakly and replied, "Thank you, Gilbert Blythe." Her voice was also overcome with emotion, also unsteady.

Gilbert nodded and stood aside as the two women walked away together. It would have been hard to say who was supporting whom.

Gilbert remained in the churchyard for a time, staring off, ostensibly at the flower-strewn pine box, and thinking. Suddenly he revived, jammed his hat onto his head and his hands into his pockets, and set off for home at a brisk pace.

The senior members of the Blythe household, though unable to attend the funeral, expressed their condolences before the fact and again, when Gilbert returned that afternoon.

It was an evening Gilbert would never forget: the heavens were an intriguing velvety royal purple, as though Matthew Cuthbert had already planted violets in between the glittering diamonds of stars. Gilbert was reading a book: _Les Misérables_, by a French author called Victor Hugo.

He had just reached the part where the Baron de Pontmercy dies, when Mr. Blythe laid down his newspaper and said in a low voice:

"Gil, there's something we've got to speak to you about."

Concerned, Gilbert immediately put down his novel. "What is it? Are you both all right?" he looked from his father's sad face to his mother's, which was pale and worried.

"Do you know why Matthew Cuthbert died?" asked Gilbert's mother suddenly.

"No…?" said Gilbert, bemused as to how Matthew Cuthbert came into all this. His mother sighed.

"The doctor told Miss Cuthbert that his death was due to shock. Mr. Cuthbert was holding that night's newspaper—the front page of which was the failure of the Abbey Bank."

"The Abbey Bank!" exclaimed Gilbert, much alarmed. "But—our money—what will you d—"

"That is the second thing," said his father. "I'm very sorry to have to tell you like this, but—your Aunt Mary…"

"No…" breathed Gilbert, disbelieving.

"She died in her sleep," concluded Mr. Blythe lamely. "Doctor Spencer said it was probably painless. You know she's been having bouts of illness since the twins were born, and she never really got any better. Your mother's been going over to see her several times a week." He considered Gilbert's face. "No one told you before that she was sick because we didn't believe she was in danger of dying—"

"—and we didn't want to stress you during your term finals," finished his mother.

Gilbert sat for a moment, unmoving. Matthew dead! Aunt Mary—a kindred spirit for sure—dead! The Blythes bankrupt!

Which reminded him…"What does this have to do with the bank?"

"Well," began Gilbert's mother, "you see, Mary's will was read a week or so ago—a few days after the Bank failed. She has split her considerable income into thirds—one-third to her brother-in-law Richard, one-third to us."

"And the last third?"

"Mary bequeathed it to the twins. She also requested that we take little David and Dora, but you can see we haven't the financial situation we once did, that could enable us to adopt them. So Marilla Cuthbert said she would take them." Mrs. Blythe laughed a little, not unkindly. "I daresay no one was too surprised at the idea of her adopting more orphans!"

Gilbert smiled a little too. At least he could visit the twins…and Anne…the _twins_…over at Green Gables.

"Our third of the money poor Mary left us is enough to live almost comfortably on—but—Gilbert—"

"Yes?" said Gilbert, alarmed again at the convoluted expression on his father's face.

And Mr. Blythe uttered the fatal words:

"I'm afraid…we won't be able to send you to college now."

Gilbert sat stunned again. This was all too, too much. What would he do now?! Anne would go off to Redmond without him, and probably come back sophisticated and citified—and—and married!

Not to mention he wouldn't achieve the level of higher education he had been counting on receiving, _of course_.

Gilbert unconsciously stood up and began to pace the floor, much to his parents' surprise. He had stopped bemoaning the tragedy of it all—long before a certain red-headed girl would have done under such circumstances—and began to think. _Think, think, think_. He tapped his fingers against his forehead out of habit, and decided that money _was_ the answer to his predicament—the Redmond predicament. The new teacher in Avonlea, Mrs. Johnson—Miss Stacey having of course left—was accepting a job in Marysville. Might not Gilbert apply for the Avonlea school?

"I can earn my way into college," he began, stopping and turning to face his parents. Eagerly he explained his plans to them, and was most heartily approved.


	18. The Bend In the Road

**_Chapter Eighteen: The Bend In the Road_**

_Serene I fold my hands and wait,_

_Nor care for wind nor tide nor sea;_

_I rave no more 'gainst time or fate,_

_For lo! my own shall come to me._

-Burroughs, _Waiting_

"…so even though I'll be the only one of our old Queen's class not going to Redmond in the fall, at least it's not because I've changed my mind about my education, and I mean to go as soon as I've saved enough," Gilbert declared triumphantly, having just returned from the Prince Edward Island School Board establishment in Charlottetown. "Part of my savings'll go to you, and—"

His mother laughed. "I guess you're wrong on two counts. First of all, we'll not accept the money you make, will we, John? It's all going to be for your education—no, don't start, Gil," quelling his indignant protestations. "And secondly, I guess you won't be alone around the Island. Jane Andrews is going to take the Newbridge school, and Anne Shirley is driving to White Sands to teach there."

_Jane Andrews is going to take the Newbridge school._ Gilbert had barely had time for this piece of information to enter his mind, let alone to digest how very Jane it was to throw away such an opportunity simply because she did not desire it, before the next, more intriguing bit of sentence followed Jane into his mind: _Anne Shirley is driving to White Sands…to teach there?!_

"But—why?" asked Gilbert blankly. "I thought Anne was going to college too!" What had happened to the hopes, the dreams, the ambitions, which showed so plainly in everything she did?

Notwithstanding his confusion, Gilbert immediately sat down and penned a hasty letter to the School Board, under the pretence that he would much rather go to White Sands, etc., etc., and highly recommended Anne Shirley, who he understood was his competitor for that post, to Avonlea. He could only hope they obliged him.

The next afternoon was gold and purple, one of those bewitching, mystical, suspended periods of time that belie the passing of summer even as a crisp, russet-ochre autumn arrives upon the scene.

Gilbert came home almost skipping after having had a romp with Charlie Sloane and the Sloanes' sheepdog; as a—still a boy, he supposed reluctantly—of eighteen he was _of course_ too old to _really_ skip; yet his appearance at the kitchen door was certainly sudden and tempestuous.

"There's a letter for you, Gil—from the School Board," mumbled Mrs. Blythe absently, as she cut potatoes.

Gilbert had pounced upon the letter almost before his mother had finished speaking. Of course, it was too soon for the Board to have replied to his letter of the day before—he was probably acting like that dim-witted heroine in _Northanger Abbey_, who seized up a laundry list in the hope of reading of ghoulish mischief—but if this _was_ the case, there was an alarming vim to Gilbert's fingers as he yanked the paper out of the envelope.

The School Board had accepted his suggestion!

_We would be prepared to agree to your proposal to engage Miss Shirley under contract for one year in the post of teacher at Avonlea School,_

they wrote.

Mrs. Blythe was amazed by her crazy son. One moment he had burst through the door; he had read a letter and next thing she knew the screen door swung back and forth even as a whinny and a sudden loud clattering of hooves came from the barnyard. _Teenagers these days…_

At Green Gables Gilbert found Mrs. Rachel Lynde sitting with Miss Cuthbert on the porch.

"Please—is Anne home?" he asked breathlessly.

Mrs. Lynde stared—first at Gilbert, then at Miss Cuthbert—Gilbert felt a twinge of annoyance at Mrs. Lynde's presumptuous, far-seeing eye—but Miss Cuthbert smiled and replied, "She's in the field."

Accordingly Gilbert lost no time in nudging his horse, who was named Braveheart—Gilbert had been all too creative as a small child, and Braveheart had been around since he was two—down the road to the golden field, in which he could see a small, lone figure in mourning shades of black and lilac walking about. The figure looked up, stopped, shielded her eyes against the brilliantly setting sun; and recognizing Gilbert, waved until he bounded up to a stop before her.

"Hello, Anne," he grinned.

"Taking a shortcut, Mr. Blythe?" Anne inquired, smiling, as Gilbert dismounted.

"Actually—Miss Cuthbert said I could find you here." He pulled the letter from the School Board out of his pocket and gave it to her. "Open it." He waited while Anne obeyed and read the contents.

"'…at Avonlea School'…?" Anne finished, looking up at Gilbert, her huge eyes even wider. "But that's _your_ post!"

"Well," said Gilbert, "I took the liberty of speaking to the trustees about the exchange. I'll be getting White Sands, and you'll stay at Green Gables."

"If could sit down, I would," said Anne dazedly. "You don't know how much this means to me. First I couldn't go to Redmond because Marilla's eyesight is leaving her, and I couldn't leave her alone like that—then I was worried about having to be always driving back and forth—but, oh, Gilbert. I don't know what to say."

Gilbert thought she had already expressed what needed to be said, but only replied, helpfully, "Then don't say anything."

"But then you'll have to pay for your board," protested Anne suddenly. "You'll never save enough for college—you can't—"

"I'll save enough." He smiled, but his tone was firm, and Anne relented.

"Besides, I'm keeping up my studies by correspondence," he continued.

"Why—so am I!" laughed Anne. Again she sobered. "Thank you for giving up the school for me, Gilbert. It was very good of you. I want you to know that I really appreciate it."

"I figure you can give me a hand with my work, and…" Gilbert cast about for some way to lighten the serious mood, "I'll call it a fair exchange."

It worked. Anne smiled and raised an eyebrow. "Aren't you worried? I'm liable to break another slate over your head!"

"I'm more worried I might break one over yours…" he returned.

And then it happened: a small stray curl escaped Anne's coiffure and blew across her face; Gilbert instinctively reached out and swept it behind her ear. His fingers lingered over her cheek, quite by accident, as far as Gilbert's brain—but not the offending fingers—were concerned.

"…Carrots," he almost whispered.

A small smile returned to Anne's face, slowly, like a sunrise, and she did not pull away; Gilbert let his hand fall back to his side, and the spell was broken. "I'll walk you home," he murmured.

And Gilbert put an arm around the shoulders of Anne Shirley—the girl he was so keenly attracted to—and took Braveheart's reins in his other hand, and they walked back to Green Gables.

**I'm not dead! I don't want to go on the cart yet! I won't be "dead soon" either!**

**Nor am I immovable even under 450 volts of electricity, bleeding demised, passed on, no more, ceased to be, expired and/or gone to meet my Maker, a late authoress, a stiff, bereft of life, resting in peace, pushing up the daisies, rung down the curtain, joined the choir invisible, OR even an ex-authoress.**

**Though I **_**am**_** pining for the fjords. Maybe a little.**

**But the point is—before you tire of my excessive, obscure Monty Python references—though this may be the end of the first book, it is most certainly not the end of ****Blythe Spirit**** (i.e., not the beginning of ****UI**** already). In fact, we are only a little over halfway done with ****Blythe****. So there.**

**Basically, if you think this is the end and take ****Blythe**** off author alert **_**now**_**, you will have bad judgment, borderline illiteracy, **_**and**_** an ex-authoress on your hands. **

**Thank you to everyone who has come thus far with me, though.**

**-M.R.**


	19. Dolly

****

**IMPORTANT: I am part of the James Logan HS Marching Band/ Colorguard program, and we will be performing at the Beijing Olympics. We just recieved itineraries, and from July 28 to August 13, I will not have computer access. I think. **

**So I am unsure as to what to do about several chapters of Blythe Spirit. I think I am going to have to persuade one of my most trustworthy friends to come on here and post for me. Don't worry about a thing; I just wanted to explain why I wouldn't be replying to reviews, PMs, etc. although there are chapters being posted.**

**Thank you.**

**-M.R.**

_Chapter Nineteen: Dolly_

_I think I could turn and live with animals—they are so placid and self-contained._

-Walt Whitman, _Song of Myself_

The Avonlea Improvement Society was founded by Anne and Gilbert and consisted of the young set of Avonlea. The goal of the "AVIS" was "not to try to improve the _people_," as Anne had had to explain to a disapproving Mrs. Rachel Lynde. "It is Avonlea itself. There are lots of things which might be done to make it prettier."

Today the AVIS came to a decision. Oliver Sloane suggested that they move to form a committee to re-shingle and –paint the town hall, which had become alarmingly leaky and drab of later years. Julia Bell, then Gilbert, then almost everybody at once roared their approval, and Anne, mindful of her duties as secretary of the AVIS, carefully and meticulously wrote the sensational event down. Teams were formed to canvass each road in and out of Avonlea; and having adjourned, the whole mass of them rose to laugh and chatter inconsequentially before finally leaving.

Anne was telling Gilbert about her latest scrape.

"I'm sure Dolly would _never_ have gotten into that wretched Mr. Harrison's fields if he would only fix his fence," she asserted, with a proud toss of her curly red hair. "She is such a well-behaved little cow."

Gilbert said nothing; a late pair of his trousers bore alarming testimony to the fact that Anne's Jersey was neither well-behaved nor little.

"…shut her away again in the pen," Anne continued matter-of-factly. "She can't get out again unless she smashes it to pieces—and, no, Gil," catching Gilbert's eyes mid-roll, and laughing, "none of Matthew's cows ever broke that pen, and they were older and bigger than mine."

Several days after this interesting statement, Gilbert had just returned from collecting along the White Sands road with Fred Wright, for the hall…the less said of this experience, the better, as they came out of a harrowing seven hours with as many dollars to show for it…and went upstairs to change before accompanying his father to Carmody to inspect a steer Gilbert's father desired to buy, and sell at auction in Charlottetown the following week-end. A great deal of money was expected from it, enough to give a small but significant advantage to the Blythes' once-abundant finances.

They were riding amiably along in the wagon when, along the road to Carmody, Gilbert's ears were assaulted by a great deal of shouting and mooing. As one the two Blythes turned and looked into Mr. Harrison's field, where a girl whose black hair stood starkly out against her all-white ensemble, and another girl, whose red hair did likewise for a smart shade of blue, were trying to single- (or perhaps double-) handedly capture a Jersey cow. Gilbert suddenly did not feel as embarrassed to be wearing his third-best pair of overalls, which were no longer as much overalls as smears of paint and snags in the thread.

Anne was shaking a long, pointy stick at Dolly. Gilbert could hear her all the way from where he was: "Here, Dolly...good girl…Shoo! Come _on_…you _wretched_ cow…Think about Mr. Harrison's cabbages—"

Although knowing Anne as well as he did, Gilbert was still entirely surprised when that young lady tripped and fell, face-first, into the gigantic puddle of mud Dolly had been happily tripping through.

Mr. Blythe began to roar with laughter; loud, quaking laughter which would have drowned out any but Diana Barry's high-pitched scream of horror.

Gilbert was suppressing his laughter.

"Gil," chuckled Mr. Blythe, wiping tears from his eyes, "seems to me I'd go and rescue them if I wasn't laughing so hard."

Anne was getting up sloshily, rather black down the front; Diana grabbed her arm, only to be dragged down after her. Eventually they gave it up and sat there dismally in the mud.

"Well," said Gilbert, causing both girls to look up in alarm at the person, who was immensely enjoying himself as he stood before them, "if it isn't the elegant Miss Barry and illustrious Miss Shirley, relaxing while seeking out ideas for their next tea party, I presume?"

"Well, do you suppose we're here to chat with the bullfrogs?" sputtered Anne incredulously, as she and Diana almost simultaneously held out mud-splattered hands. "Be a gentleman."

Dubiously Gilbert obliged, hauling both girls to their feet.

His father was still convulsed with laughter…which recalled Gilbert to the cow in question. "You'd have been better off selling her last week when Dad offered to buy her."

"Well, I'll sell Dolly to him right _now_ if he wants her!" huffed Anne, dragging Diana past Gilbert as she had done so often before Gilbert and Anne became friends. This gave Gilbert the opportunity to gaze after Anne in unadulterated admiration. Who would ever have thought mud could be elevated to the point of beauty? (He even forgot he now had the opportunity to laugh.)

"You may _have_ our darn Jersey!" yelled Anne, in Mr. Blythe's general direction.

"Done! I'll give you the twenty dollars I offered for her before! Gil can drive her over to Charlottetown this evening! I promised Mr. Reed of Brighton a fine Jersey cow!"

Mr. Blythe laughed; the cow was loaded into the wagon to go to Charlottetown immediately, with the rest of the Blythes' stock, and Gilbert drove away while his father stayed behind to conduct business. Despite Anne's generous offer, the amount of twenty dollars was agreed to, and the next morning Gilbert was to take it over to Green Gables; but as he turned into the Cuthbert road a soft, red-headed object barreled straight into him.

"Anne?" exclaimed Gilbert, taking her by the shoulders and holding her at arm's length. "Are you all right?"

"Oh, Gil!" wailed Anne immediately. "The most HORRIBLE thing has happened. When will I _ever _learn to stop and _reflect _a little before I do reckless things?!"

"What have you done?"

"Mrs. Lynde always told me I would do something dreadful one day, by not thinking—and now I've done it!"

"Anne!" repeated Gilbert, even shaking her—not very much, of course, seeing it was Anne—because she looked like Ruby Gillis did when Ruby was about to go into hysterics. "Anne, _what did you do_?"

"The cow," gasped Anne, breathless from running, crashing into Gilbert, and being hysterical, "the wretched, miserable cow! I came out into the yard this morning—and Dolly was IN THE MILKING PEN."

"What?" cried Gilbert. "But Dad drove her to Charlottetown last night—"

"That's the worst part," groaned Anne tragically, wringing her hands in her apron. "It WASN'T Dolly—it was Mr. Harrison's cow—the one he bought from Mr. Bell last year!"

"Oh," said Gilbert inadequately. He reached into his inside coat pocket and produced an envelope. "Well, here is the twenty dollars for Dol—the cow, anyways. What are you going to do?"

"I shall go and see him tonight, with the offer of either Dolly in exchange…which I think he'll refuse…or the twenty dollars," said Anne promptly, lifting her pointed little chin as though Gilbert was suggesting the taciturn newcomer might get the better of her in an argument.

Quite frankly, Gilbert felt sorry for Mr. Harrison in that respect.


	20. New Teachers

****

**The poll has finally ended, and I suppose I should have known that the books would win out in the end. However, more people who did not vote instead sent me an avalanche of PMs, requesting that I please combine the two? **

**So I will. I'm sorry if this displeases you, and I'm sorry if this causes you to stop reading; but this decision has taken me a very long time to make, and I believe it is the best way to satisfy both sides of the vote…as well as both sides of my own opinion!**

**-M.R.**

P.S. New poll!

_Chapter Twenty: New Teachers_

_And gladly would he learn and gladly teach._

-Geoffrey Chaucer, _Canterbury Tales_, Prologue

Anne looked as thought she was going to melt...all over Jane's new crimson skirt. "I could never whip a child. I don't believe in it at all. Miss Stacey never whipped any of us and she had perfect order; and Mr. Phillips was always whipping and he had no order at all. No—" her eyes flashed a lurid, dragonish green in a way that boded ill for any supporter of corporal punishment—"if I can't get along without whipping, I shall try not to teach school. There are better ways of managing. I shall try to win my pupils' affections and then they will _want _to do what I tell them."

"But suppose they don't?!" Jane persisted stubbornly.

Anne sighed in exasperation. "I wouldn't whip them anyhow! I'm _sure_ it wouldn't do any good. Oh, DON'T whip your pupils, Jane dear…no matter what they do!"

Tomorrow was the first of September and the opening of Canada's schools; and the three new teachers-to-be were terrified out of their wits; that is to say, Anne was trembling with nervous excitement, Gilbert was fairly anxious…and sensible Jane was as cool and calm as Barry's Pond.

For the last ten minutes Anne and Jane had been debating the best way to handle refractory children. Quite obviously, Anne was staunchly against having any reason whatsoever for setting up a good store of birch switches, as Jane had, for any reason other than kindling in the school stove.

Also for the previous ten minutes, Gilbert had been doing his best to keep silent. He felt, for himself, that one should "govern by affection" only until _that _had failed; then, perhaps, no one could blame one for having to whip a child—could they?

At this convenient moment, Jane turned to him. "What do you think about it, Gilbert? Don't _you_ think there are some children that really need a whipping now and then?"

"Don't you think it's a cruel, barbarous thing to whip a child—any child?" demanded Anne in her turn.

_Talk about a rock and a hard place._ Despite, or at that moment, perhaps, because of, Anne's presence, and the fact that she (and Jane) hung to his every word, Gilbert wished he was safely at home, preferably under the bed.

"We-ellllllllllll…" Gilbert drawled, holding the one-syllable word out as long as possible. "there's something to be said on both sides. I _don't_ believe in whipping children _much_. I think—as you say, Anne—that there are better ways of managing as a rule, and that corporal punishment should be a last resort. But on the other hand—as Jane says—I believe there is an occasional child who can't be influenced in ay other way and who, in short, needs a whipping and would be improved by it." The whole time, Gilbert had been avoiding the two girls' eyes—let alone their faces! "Corporal punishment as a last resort is to be _my_ rule."

Anne and Jane sighed in unison, loudly.

"You, Gilbert Blythe, are superfluous," groaned Jane, flapping an aggravated hand at Gilbert. "I'll whip my pupils when they're naughty; it's the shortest and easiest way of convincing them."

Gilbert could not decide which was more insulting, the gesture or the accompanying sentiment.

Anne said nothing, but looked sorrowfully at Gilbert, so that he silently resolved NEVER to whip a pupil…if it meant measuring up that much closer to Anne's standards.

"I shall _never_ whip a child," Anne said, after a moment. "I feel it isn't either right or necessary."

"Suppose a boy sauced you back when you told him to do something?"

"I'd keep him in after school and talk kindly and firmly to him. There is some good in every person if you can find it."

"That is what our School Management professor at Queen's told us, you know," Gilbert supplied, helpfully, while looking at Jane.

Jane colored and tossed her head.

Anne continued. "Do you suppose you could find any good in a child by whipping him? It's far more important to influence the children aright than it is even to teach them the three R's, Professor Rennie says."

"But the Inspector ex_am_ines them in the three R's!" spluttered Jane. "Mind you, he won't give you a good report if they don't come up to his standard."

"I'd rather have my pupils love me—and look back to me in after years as a real helper—than be on the roll of honor."

"Wouldn't you punish the children at all if they misbehaved?" Gilbert affected concern, trying to stay in character with his last opinion even though he had of course changed his mind since.

"Oh, yes…I suppose I shall _have_ to…" conceded Anne, "although I know I'll hate to do it. But you can keep them in at recess or stand them on the floor or give them lines to write."

Jane grinned at Anne. "I suppose you won't punish the girls by making them sit with the boys?"

Gilbert glanced at Anne—their eyes met—it was too late—he could not suppress it—they both burst out in foolish laughter.

"Of…course…not!" wheezed Gilbert, clutching his stomach, which was beginning to ache. "It's very bad…for de—for developing…friendships!"

Which made Anne laugh even harder; she sank to the ground, shaking with mirth.

"Well, time will tell which is the best way," said Jane, loudly and hastily, and made good her escape.

As it turned out, Gilbert had no fear from that quarter. Unfortunately male teachers attracted a great deal more respect than female ones, and the children of the White Sands school…the eldest of which was only thirteen…accepted Gilbert without protest; indeed, being practically a boy himself, he was made popular with the small fry of the male persuasion by the fact that he was not "old", like all adults were in their eyes; he could run and jump, and also was a great hand for rescuing broken fishing line and truant kites and poor little scraped knees. The girls of White Sands School also adored their handsome teacher…but for that and other such reasons.


	21. Hester Gray's Garden

**I'm glad school is coming to an end in a very few days. Not only am I gaining speed in working on Blythe Spirit, but I now also have time to work on the _Prince Caspian _fanfic I have just begun writing, Phases Oppositions. By now, I am as proud of it as I am of Blythe.**

**As aforementioned, don't forget to vote in the new poll!**

**_Chapter Twenty-One: Hester Gray's Garden_**

_That is well said, replied Candide, but we must cultivate our garden._

-Voltaire, _Candide_

In spring a pretty thing happened. It is, then, recorded here, not because it was important or dramatic or valiant, but because of its bearing later on in Gilbert's life.

That spring was the most beautiful Gilbert could recall; the flowers bloomed as fully and vividly as dresses in a ballroom; the bees hummed, a serene, unconcerned choir; the days were pleasantly warm, accompanied by a teasing, cool breeze.

Gilbert, upon strolling down to Green Gables, found Anne seated in the cool pool of shadow beneath the Snow Queen—the huge flowering cherry tree just outside Anne's window—with her school-books and her students' papers about her; but upon her lap and under the intense scrutiny of her eyes and a pen was a leather folio that Gilbert had seen in her schoolbag before, but never removed while they were studying.

Suddenly, just as Gilbert was about to approach her, Anne gave a great sigh and leaned back against the tree, her arm over her eyes.

"What is the matter?" he said.

Anne started, and gathered her papers together, unceremoniously stuffing them back into her folio. "Nothing very dreadful," she reassured him tremulously. "I was just trying to write out some of my thoughts, as Professor Hamilton advised me. But I couldn't get them to please me. They seem so stiff and foolish directly they're written down on white paper with black ink! Fancies are like shadows…it seems…you can't cage them, they're such wayward, dancing things. But perhaps I'll learn the secret some day if I keep on trying." She laughed, ruefully. "I haven't a great many spare moments, you know. By the time I finish correcting school exercises and compositions, I don't always feel like writing any of my own!"

"You are getting on splendidly in school, Anne," Gilbert hastened to reassure her. "All the children like you." He sat down beside her on the grass.

"No, not all. Anthony Pye doesn't and _won't_ like me. What is worse, he doesn't respect me."

"Of _course_—"

"No, he doesn't." Anne shook her head. "He simply holds me in contempt and I don't mind confessing to you that it worries me miserably. It isn't that he is so very bad; he is only rather mischievous, but no worse than some of the others. He seldom disobeys me, but he obeys with a scornful air of toleration, as if it wasn't worth disputing the point, or he _would_ be naughty…and it has a bad effect on the others." Anne sighed again. "I've tried every way to win him, but I'm beginning to fear I never shall. I _want_ to, for he's a cute little lad, even if he _is _a Pye, and I _could_ like him if he'd let me."

"Probably it's merely the effect of what he hears at home," suggested Gilbert, thinking of Josie.

The corner of Anne's mouth quirked, as if she knew what his thought was. "Not altogether. Anthony is an independent little chap and makes up his own mind about things. You see he has always gone to men before and says girl teachers are no good. Well," she smiled, "we'll see what patience and kindness can do. I like overcoming difficulties, and teaching is really very interesting work. Now, _Paul Irving_ makes up for all that is lacking in the others. The child is a perfect darling, Gil, and a genius into the bargain. I'm persuaded the world will hear of him some day."

Gilbert, who had met the said Paul Irving, could not rationally disagree with Anne's diagnosis. At the very least, Paul was a kindred spirit.

"I like teaching too," Gilbert agreed. "It's good training, for one thing. Why Anne, I've learned more in the months we've all been teaching the young ideas of Prince Edward Island than I learned in all the years I went to school myself!

"We all seem to be getting on pretty well. The Newbridge people like Jane, or so I hear, and…I think…White Sands is tolerably satisfied with your humble servant." He laughed ruefully, remembering, "that is, all but Mr. Andrew Spencer. I met Mrs. Peter Blewett on my way home last night and she told me she thought it her duty to inform me that Mr. Spencer didn't approve of my methods."

Anne laughed. "Have you ever noticed that when people say it is their duty to tell you a certain thing you may prepare for something disagreeable? _Why is it_ that they never seem to think it their duty to tell you the _pleasant_ things they hear about you? Mrs. H.B. Don_nell_"—the megalomaniacal woman's surname was a joke throughout Avonlea—"called at the school again yesterday and told me she thought it _her_ duty to inform me that Mrs. Harmon Andrews didn't approve of my reading faerie tales to the children, and that Mr. Rogerson though Prillie wasn't coming on fast enough in arithmetic! If Prillie would spend less time making eyes at the boys over her slate she might do better. She reminds me of Prissy Andrews!"

The discussion of their students went on for some time; then Anne rose and held out her hand to Gilbert. "Come, I want to show you what the girls and I found the other day."

In a few minutes Gilbert found himself in the most beautiful garden he had ever seen. It was all roses—all colors of roses. The garden was mostly shaded by trees, yet the roses bloomed, blousy and full, as though enchanted.

Anne sighed happily as Gilbert looked around, amazed. "Milk, saffron, fuchsia, blood, pearl, ochre, flame, coral, ruby…there's no end to them, is there?" she inquired.

Gilbert had not yet finished drinking in the unparalleled beauty around him, yet he halted his gaze and turned to his companion. "Anne—what _is_ this place?"

Anne was sitting upon a stone bench in a corner of the garden, her eyes twinkling. "This is Hester Gray's garden."

"Hester Gray?" The name struck a familiar chord in Gilbert's mind. There had been a story, once, when he went to visit Aunt Mary…"Wasn't she the one who came here from Boston to marry Jordan Gray, and died of consumption?"

"Yes, that was her; Diana told the story to me," said Anne dreamily. "Oh, isn't it simply tragical? Diana says she died in the garden, with her beloved smiling over her, and roses in their hands. This is the most romantic place in the world, _I _think."

Gilbert said nothing, wanting to steer clear of the more dangerous connotations of that last remark, before he blundered and made _Anne_ have to suffer the discomfort of "steering clear".


	22. Trials and Tribulations

**Emily-in-the-glass: Perhaps they went 'round in circles. (: Who knows?**

**To all: I'm currently planning out Unromantic Ideal, and for the purposes of some nuances and/or references in the story, I recommend reading Before Green Gables. It is not that the story will not be understood without reading BGG, but simply that the things I'm slipping in will be _seen_ as things I am slipping in, rather than random occurrences. Thanks!**

**-M.R.**

_**Chapter Twenty-Two: Trials and Tribulations**_

_These are the times that try men's souls._

-Paine, _The American Crisis_

By late April the Avonlea Town Hall was to be painted by Mr. Joshua Pye; accordingly, when 28 April arrived, the taciturn man betook himself to the hall, which was off the main road, and emptied the cans of paint, brushstroke by brushstroke, onto the repaired building.

A few days after the hall was painted, Gilbert was sprawled over his bed, poring over a practice test in his Biology textbook.

_Consider the following food chain: grass—grasshoppers—wrens—snakes—eagles. If the number of wrens in this ecosystem were to increase, which population would vary most inversely?_

Gilbert made a face at his textbook. Biology might be a needed course for medical study once Gilbert got to Redmond, but the portion about ecology was just _too easy_ to suffer. He picked up his pen.

_The grasshopper population would be the first to decrease in this ecosystem, because the wrens_

"Gilbert?" A pair of boots sounded on the stairs. _Thudd, thudd._ It was his father. "Gil, where are you?"

"In my room!" Gilbert called.

His father walked in, his hat in his hands. "Gil…I don't think you're going to like what I'm about to say, but…it's about the Improvers…"

"Dad," laughed Gilbert, "I _told _you. we're not disbanding, no matter how often Mrs. Lynde or the Pyes condemn our work."

Gilbert's father smiled briefly. "It's almost that. I'm afraid no one will take your committees seriously from now on."

Gilbert sat bolt upright. "What's happened?!"

"The hall—"

"The hall?"

"The hall."

"What about it?"

"It…" his father tried to frown again, and burst out laughing. "Oh Gil! It's outrageous. It's ridiculous."

"…?"

"It's BLUE!" wheezed Mr. Blythe.

But Gilbert saw _nothing_ funny about the matter. He grabbed his sweater and dashed out of the house.

As he passed Orchard Slope he came upon Fred Wright near Barry's Field.

"Gilbert!" exclaimed Fred, obviously surprised.

"Fred!" gasped Gilbert, skidding to a halt. "Have you—did you—is it true—?"

"Gil?" said Fred warily, backing up a little. "Are you all right?"

Gilbert laughed maniacally. "No! Joshua Pye's painted the Avonlea town hall _blue_!"

"What!"

"At least that's what I heard—I'm on my way to Green Gables to find out from Anne!" And without pausing to wonder what Fred had been doing at Orchard Slope, Gilbert began running again, closely followed by Fred.

At Green Gables Fred and Gilbert found Diana, Jane, and Anne slouched dispiritedly beneath a large weeping willow. _How appropriate_, Gilbert mused. Aloud he addressed Anne: "It isn't true, surely?"

"Diana!" exclaimed Fred.

"It _is_ true! Mrs. Lynde called on her way from Carmody to tell me. Oh, it is simply _dreadful_!" wailed Anne, looking as though she was about to tear at her hair and rend her garments. "Oh, _what_ is the use of trying to improve _anything_?"

"Fred!" exclaimed Diana.

"What is dreadful?" inquired Oliver Sloane, Charlie's cousin and another member of the AVIS, appearing at this crucial moment.

"Well, it is simply this: _Joshua Pye has gone and painted the hall BLUE instead of GREEN—_a deep, brilliant blue, the kind used for painting carts and wheelbarrows." Jane looked as though she would like to indulge in a few choice words, of which most _boys_ barely even dared _think_. "And Mrs. Lynde says it is the most hideous color for a building, especially when combined with a red roof, that she ever saw or imagined."

"And Mrs. Lynde _never_ imagines things," griped a certain "red-roofed" girl…who was earnestly trying to pretend she was not wearing a blue dress.

Jane sighed loudly. "You could simply have knocked me down with a feather when I heard it. It's heartbreaking, after all the trouble we've had."

Anne burst into tears.

"Anne!" Gilbert dropped to the grass and put a comforting arm around her shoulders. "It's just a bit of paint! It's all right!"

Of course the matter was not "just a bit of paint", to Gilbert or to any other member of the AVIS…who all discreetly looked the other way, except Diana.

"…such a Jonah day!" Anne sobbed.

"It's not just the hall," Diana informed Gilbert over Anne's bent head. "She's had a horrible day at the school."

"She even whipped Anthony Pye," added Jane, with an expression that was an odd combination of sympathy and "I-told-you-so" smugness.

Anne let out a wail and flopped over into the grass.

It turned out later that the serial numbers pertaining to colors of paint had been terribly confused. The AVIS despaired of ever being received again in Avonlea, but paradoxically the entire town thought the AVIS had been badly used, and began quietly to render them the services that had been requested.

As if all of this were not enough, about three weeks after the hall incident Gilbert was going to Green Gables with chocolate caramels, peppermints, and the like, to be regarded in the reverent light of a Davy and the decorous light of a Dora. This afternoon, Gilbert could not see the little nut-brown head at the front window, where it was wont to be, the better to get the first glimpse of "cousin Gil," but that was to be expected, as his visit today was a surprise.

Anne flew to meet Gilbert at the gate. "Gilbert—Dora is missing!"

"Missing?" Gilbert went white to the lips. Davy and his small mischiefs were endearing, but Gilbert's favorite cousin was the small girl-child who waited patiently for him at the window, who had giggle fits, who talked rapidly and—seemingly—unceasingly only to him. "How?"

"We don't know," lamented Anne. "Davy says he hasn't seen her since dinner, and Marilla was gone all day. And I was at school of course. There isn't anywhere we haven't looked. We…" her voice faltered. "We even looked down the well…but…no one…_answered_…oh, where could she _be_?!"

"The Haunted Woods?"

Anne's eyes widened with empathy. "Possibly. Oh dear, oh dear, she's probably hunched under some monstrous tree, crying her eyes out as I almost did when I was twelve. She may have fainted—like I did. Then again," admitted Anne, allowing a twinkle into her eyes, "she hadn't fallen off a roof and twisted her ankle painfully." Snapping back to the present, Anne gave Gilbert a small push in the direction of the dark, gloomy spruce grove. "Quick—see if Dora's to be found there!"

Accordingly Gilbert plunged into the spruces and ferns, searching for his little cousin. "Dora?"

No answer. Gilbert searched for another fifteen minutes. It was too dim to see much, but he really could not find the small girl.

"Dora? It's me…it's—"

"GILBERT!" Wherever Anne was, it was far away, but Gilbert could hear her. "Gilbert! Come quickly!"

Gilbert eventually found Anne trying to yank the door of the old decrepit tool shed outside Mr. Harrison's property open. In a second he was beside her and had torn the rotting slab of wood away.

There indeed sat Dora, her dress muddy and torn, her face also dirty, and streaked with tears. Wordlessly she held out her arms to Gilbert, who scooped the little girl up in his arms fiercely. He held her so that Anne could speak to her as they walked back to Green Gables.

"Oh Dora—what a fright you've given us!" cried Anne.

"Davy and I c-came over to see Ginger, but we c-couldn't see h-him after all. Only Davy made him s-swear by kicking the d-door," chattered Dora, as frightened as she was cold. Ginger was Mr. Harrison's lurid-green parrot. "And th-then Davy brought m-me here and run out and shut the door an' I couldn't get out. I cried and cried, I was so frightened. And oh! I'm so hungry and cold, and thought neither of you'd never come!" Dora finished with a howl, and overcome with the afternoon's events, she buried her face in Gilbert's shoulder.

"Davy…?" For a moment Anne looked as though she were about to cry; then she straightened her spine, squared her shoulders, and began walking more briskly. "Excuse me, Gil, Dora. I need to find Davy and talk to him _alone_. You'd best clean up Dora and put her to bed; you don't need me to help as we've done before—" this last directed solely to Gilbert, who, though he quite enjoyed playing "house" with Anne and Dora, nodded mutely.

"Where's Anne going?" Dora hiccupped, lifting her head from Gilbert's shoulder just in time to see Anne striding away.

"To find your brother."

"Where'll she find him?"

"I don't know. But wherever Davy is," said Gilbert grimly, thinking of several reasons it was best not to anger Anne, "he had probably better hide somewhere good for a few months…"


	23. Pride and Prescience

**White-Lily-Blossom has been kind enough to create illustrations for _Blythe_. Please go and see them at my LiveJournal, username _narnianmaiden_, post title "Chapter IX". Thank you!**

**-M.R.**

_**Chapter Twenty-Three: Pride and Prescience**_

_Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;_

_And thus the native hue of resolution_

_Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought._

-Shakespeare, _Hamlet_

The White Sands schoolhouse stood almost alone in the late dusk's purple glow. A lone figure could be seen at the door, from which a loud rattling sound ensued.

Gilbert Blythe, tall, curly-haired, twinkly-hazel-eyed, humorous, sensible schoolmaster of the White Sands School, jiggled patiently away at the rusty, clumsily-made key-hole and its counterpart key…if jiggling could be said to be a sign of patience.

Finally the key turned in the lock with a faint wheezing sigh. With almost as much difficulty, Gilbert extricated the key and returned it safely to his book bag. He dusted the rust stains off his hands…it was a damp night…and sticking his hands in his pockets, walked blithely away, whistling. It was only two miles to his boarding-house and the walk was a nice one.

After about three-quarters of a mile a large buggy could be seen rapidly approaching. But instead of whizzing past Gilbert and covering him in the proverbial splash of mud, the vehicle came to an abrupt halt before him, nearly upsetting its passengers into the muddy street.

Ned McEwan was to White Sands youth what Gilbert had been…was still, unfortunately…to Avonlea's juvenilia. Ned's authority had been threatened by the advent of Gilbert as schoolteacher; but in a moment we shall see why Ned was content with being friends with Gilbert, and Gilbert was content with avoiding the young men and women of White Sands. Especially Ned.

"Gil Blythe!" Ned leaned out of the buggy, the horses' reins draped casually over one uncalloused hand. In the other he waved a cigarette airily about as he spoke. "Care to join us? We're up to the Hotel for a concert!"

Considering that the buggy was already full of raucous people…and Ned's cigarette, having sputtered out, was re-lit by a young lady—I use the term "lady" loosely in this instance…it did not take Gilbert long to make up his mind. "No, thank you, Ned. I'm off to grade some papers," he lied. He had just finished grading papers; that was why he had remained at the school so late.

Ned, who was actually quite relieved that he would again not have to vie for the attention of the females of the group, had little time to utter a vaguely sincere "Sorry to miss you, old chap!" before a girl seized the reins and slapped them enthusiastically upon the horses' backs, causing the imperiled buggy to rattle drunkenly away.

Gilbert allowed the buggy to proceed around the corner before letting out a long, heavy sigh that perfectly expressed his feelings for the White Sands "set".

The teenage population of White Sands took the French notion of _joie de vivre_ a little too far…"because so many Yankees have settled in White Sands and interbred with good P.E.I. stock," Mrs. Lynde had sniffed, upon being regaled by Gilbert with his first horror story of being a teacher in that town. They flitted from concert to musicale to hotel to dance like large, gaudily-colored embroidered Oriental butterflies. They smoked cigarettes, they drank alcohol, they swore fluently when an objectionable situation arose…even the girls. And the worst part was, their parents did not even lift a finger in protest or restraint, believing that their young men and women should get the "most" out of life while they could.

_If they want the _most_ for their children…why are they like this?_ Gilbert reflected bitterly. Well, when _he_ had children—well, when his _wife_ had children—he wouldn't subject them to such degradation. He wanted to be _proud_ of them, not change the subject hastily whenever their misdeeds came up in conversation.

To be fair, Gilbert knew he would probably drink a little now and again with his friends in the near future. And he already knew that he could smoke a cigarette without choking, sickening, or becoming addicted.

But _hadn't these people ever heard of moderation?_

Gilbert entered the boarding-house and clambered up the ironwork staircase noisily; it was only seven at night, too early to think of disturbing others' slumber.

There was, he admitted to himself, another reason…almost as important and sacred to Gilbert's mind…why he never joined the youth of White Sands on their carefree jaunts.

Anne would never approve. Anne would turn up…and thereby ruin…her pretty nose in disgust if she ever found that Gilbert had become overfond of an alcoholic drink. Or smelt of tobacco smoke. Or swore…_especially_ swore. There were mild vehement exclamations, such as those used by Avonlean boys generally, and then there were round and bloody oaths that met with Anne's…and others'…disapproval when uttered by Mr. Harrison's parrot Ginger—imagine how she would react if one of her friends—if _Gilbert_—used such a horrible phrase!

Over Gilbert Anne wielded her influence—unconsciously. She was no Jo March, batting away the secretly lovestruck Laurie with a hard horsehair cushion and her blunt wit…although Anne _had_ made Gilbert read _Little Women_, from whence those characters originated, the past winter…under Mrs. Lynde's disapproving stare, that they should be reading a _Yankee_ _woman's_ _novels_—three counts against the book. No, Jo had been a sister or mother figure to her best boy friend. Anne was instead the friend who is somehow at the center of a network of close chums, thoughtful and kind, whose good opinion, _à la _Mr. Darcy, "once lost, was lost forever"…whose presence was so constant that one often found oneself on the brink of a dubious action, pondering, "What would my friend say if they knew of this?"

In short, Gilbert was never sure of the difference between Anne's good opinion, Gilbert's own morals and conscience…or whether there was any.


	24. Anne Before Green Gables

**I'm leaving on a trip on Friday, and won't be back until Sunday, so here's a nice, lengthy, early chapter! Hoorah!**

**-M.R.**

_**Chapter Twenty-Four: Anne Before Green Gables**_

_Anne…peeked in the door to see if the two cats were inside. They were…This was the first time she'd seen them. Both were short-haired, one gray, the other striped. Anne sat George down on the floor while she bent to stroke them. "Oh, George!" she said. "Isn't a purr the most exquisite sound in the world? Almost as good as music. Mrs. Hammond says they have no names. I'm going to call them Gilbert and Sullivan. Miss Henderson said they were both very musical."_

-Budge Wilson, _Before Green Gables_

It was twilight in Avonlea, but the shadows had crept round the still-rising white moon…enclosed its brilliance in night's inky black fingers…fingers like the prickly branches of the spruce trees in the Haunted Wood.

As Gilbert, lost in fanciful musings, emerged from the ghostly spruce grove into relative clarity and light, he suddenly noticed a slim, red-haired figure meandering about nearby the small puddle of a pond, which Anne called the Dryad's Bubble, that flowed a ways behind Orchard Slope. Even as he noticed Anne she saw him and waved.

Gilbert chose the feathery ferns by the little body of water as a comfortable resting place, while Anne opted for a convenient flattish rock next to a birch tree.

In the six years that had passed since Anne came to Avonlea, she had simply grown more and more beautiful, like the small green bud, creamy petals peeking out coquettishly from between the bud-leaves, that blossoms gradually into a blowsy, beautiful white rose. Her hair was definitely "auburn"…no longer carrot colored! Her eyes were the same—as changing and bewitching as the sea that the Island-born were never far from: neither physically when they were home, or emotionally when anywhere else in the world…She still had a few freckles, but to Gilbert they were endearing even as they were the bane of her existence…now that Gilbert was not a worry in that category.

Even as he studied his chosen goddess intently, Gilbert was as unaware of the intense scrutiny to which he was being subjected under _Anne's_ eyes, as she was of his admiration. He only thought of how Anne's beauty had increased…and how he could never, never tell her so…unless he wanted to be laughed at…or to lose her friendship for ever…Well, perhaps "never" was _sort of an exaggeration_, but "ever" seemed a very long way off, too.

"You look like a real dryad under that tree," said Gilbert—who had been casting about for something casual to say for several desperate centuries—before realizing he had come perilously close to making Anne a romantic compliment.

Fortunately Anne did not hear his statement as a compliment. "I love birch trees."

"Then you'll be glad to hear that Mr. Major Spencer has decided to set out a row of white birches all along the road in front of his farm by way of encouraging the AVIS," continued Gilbert eagerly, glad that they had found a safe topic.

"Oh!" Anne clasped her hands rapturously, a gesture which Gilbert had seen so many times before when they were children together. "How perfectly delicious! How did you ever _know_?"

"Well, he was talking to me about it today," replied Gilbert humbly. "Major Spencer is the most progressive and public-spirited man in Avonlea. And Mr. William Bell is going to set out a spruce hedge along his road front and up his lane. Our Society is getting on splendidly, Anne. It is past the experimental stage and is an accepted fact. The older folks—" which meant Mrs. Lynde—"are beginning to take an interest in it and the White Sands people are talking of starting one too."

All right, so maybe the last statement had been mere fabrication on Gilbert's part. But since the Hall incident, he had found that Anne needed a great deal of reassurance about the success of the AVIS.

"The Ladies' Aid are talking of taking up the graveyard, and I hope they will, because there will have to be a subscription for that, and it would be no use for _us_ to try after the hall affair," said Anne, rather ruefully. "But the Aids would never have stirred in the matter if the AVIS hadn't put it into their thoughts unofficially."

This was somewhat of a joke between Anne and Gilbert, as the latter had been to dinner at Green Gables during this "unofficial" proposal. Translation: "I persuaded Mrs. Lynde, by way of making her feel a little uncomfortable about the recent inactivity of the Aids, to suggest the idea to them, and I…Mrs. Lynde…was successful."

For a few minutes, the conversation delved into what else the AVIS could do to improve Avonlea…finally there was another lull in their talk, and Anne absentmindedly stroked the silvery-white trunk of the tree she leaned against as though it were a gray cat. Gilbert watched this performance quietly.

Anne, who'd lost herself in reverie for a few moments, started and looked around at Gilbert, who was still gazing at her. "Why are you looking at me like that?" she asked cagily.

"Oh!" said Gilbert, much surprised himself. "I was thinking," he replied, slowly (and truthfully, this time), "about how despite the years that have come and gone since you came here you are as much of a little girl—dreaming and playing and imagining—as you were before. But not in a bad way," he added hastily.

But Anne did not seem to have thought he meant it in a derisive manner. She looked at him thoughtfully, her chin in her hands, her elbows propped up on her knees. Finally she spoke again. "I suppose you know nothing of how I was before I came to Avonlea."

Her voice was not disdainful, nor was it wary; it was merely…curious? Gilbert couldn't quite put his finger on a suitable adjective. "Nothing," he agreed.

"I've never _told_ anyone here about me then," Anne continued, almost to herself. "Even Marilla does not know my whole life's story."

"I'd like to hear your 'whole life's story'," Gilbert said quietly. "That is, if you feel you'd like to tell it to some one…?"

"I would," said Anne firmly, sliding off her rock and sitting near Gilbert's ferns. "I'd like to tell it to you…it would make me feel so much better. Because I don't like to talk about it to _any one_. I wish it would just _go away and leave me alone_, sometimes. But then I don't. Because there were a few people…And then I _do_ hate how my life was." Anne's lower lip quivered, but her eyes were dry as of yet. "They were all taken away from me."

"Your parents?" queried Gilbert quietly.

"To begin with," Anne agreed. "I'm told my mother was beautiful. Bertha Willis. My eyes. Blonde hair. Gilbert—I was _almost blonde_." She laughed a little, humorlessly. "That was part of the reason why I used to hate my red hair so much. But then I would remember that my father—Walter Shirley—had had auburn hair. And then I didn't feel as bad. They…my parents…were teachers at the Bolingbroke High School.

"And then they died," she said simply. "Of scarlet fever, within four days of one another. I suppose…" reluctantly… "there must have been a little romance in being reunited with your loved one so very soon. But I was only three months old. So Mrs. Thomas took me in. Mrs. Thomas was the woman who came in to clean for my parents before, and she said I was the ugliest baby she ever saw…nothing but eyes and limbs…but mother thought I was absolutely beautiful.

"Mrs. Thomas had three girls. Eliza, Trudy and Margaret. Trudy and Margaret were mean to me…I was glad when they went away to jobs in the city. But Eliza…" Anne pressed her eyes closed, as though for composure, or as one does when trying to hold onto…or block out…a memory. "Eliza was the eldest. And _she loved me_. And she always told me that when she got out of that house, when she married, she would take me with her. And her kind husband would buy a house with flowers in the garden, and a doll for me. Maybe even a _kitten_. I'd never had, let alone touched, either.

"And then 'horrible Roger', as I used to call him, came into her life when I was five. He was perfect: a good dancer, a nonalcoholic, kind, handsome. He really loved Eliza. But not enough to want me to come with Eliza if they got married. And Eliza…left me behind."

Gilbert was struck by the tragedy of the entire thing. Just imagine never being wanted! Or worse, as Anne had experienced: being wanted in brief, transient intervals…then regarded as dispensable. "Eliza…was _that eager_ to leave the Thomas house? Why…" he trailed off.

"By the time Eliza left, the other girls were gone too," said Anne simply, "and Mrs. Thomas had had four more babies, all boys." She smiled ruefully. "Noah…the last baby…was my only favorite…I didn't like the others. But guess, Gilbert, who had to look after them?"

"But you were only five!"

"Mrs. Thomas was working all day to support the family. Mr. Thomas was an alcoholic," she added hastily, for Gilbert's comprehension. "I felt sorry for him…it was clear to me that he didn't _mean_ to be the way he was, but he _was_. Eventually he lost his job working with trains because of it and we removed to Marysville.

"Marysville was not so bad. I began to go to school a little, when I was not taking care of Horace, Edward, Harry, and Noah. And I met four people, this time, that loved me. There was Miss Henderson, the teacher, who was very pretty…she had a smile that could melt icicles…and very compassionate. There was Sadie, who sat next to me. She was very plain and very simple, but she was the only one in the school who was kind. There was Mrs. Archibald, who was our nearest neighbor and Miss Henderson's aunt. And then," Anne paused, like a woman about to show off her newest, priciest jewel, "there was the Egg Man."

"Who, I presume, you went to see for eggs?" asked Gilbert, at a loss for what else to say in the time graciously provided by his storyteller.

"Of course. His name was Mr. Johnson, and Mrs. Archibald told me he was very unkind because he had been thwarted in love long ago. But I didn't call him either the Egg Man or Mr. Johnson; I called him the Word Man. Because he taught me words whenever I saw him." Anne smiled a little, a real smile for the first time since she had begun her story. "Do you know something he told me one day about heartbreak...the heartbreak I faced daily?"

"No." Gilbert had caught at the excitement that whispered an undercurrent below Anne's words. "Tell me."

"Remember he'd had his share of heartbreak, too. He said, '_It will get better_. Probably not today. Maybe not tomorrow or next week. Or even next month. Look how long it took me to crawl out of the hole I was in. _But I'm out_. I thought I never would be, but it happened.' I'd just introduced him to Miss Henderson."

Gilbert was amazed by the clarity with which she recalled those words. He realized she must have had ample reason to remember them, hugging them to herself like a blanket against the life that had been forced upon her.

But Anne was smiling now. "And look, Gilbert, it _did happen_. And later on Miss Henderson and Mr. Johnson got married.

"When I was ten Mr. Thomas was drunk again and died under a train. His mother agreed to take in Mrs. Thomas and the children. But she didn't want _me_. Finally Mrs. Hammond from up the river said she'd take me in, seeing I was useful.

"Gilbert, Mrs. Hammond had SIX children. Two girls, and two sets of twins. She had a baby…or two…every May. She was pregnant when I first met her…with a third pair of twins. Not much happened besides that. Miss Haggerty, the midwife, was nice to me too, but she didn't really like children. That was why she was an old maid. I went to school again and Mr. MacDougall was the one who first showed me pictures of Prince Edward Island.

"Then _Mr. Hammond_ died of a heart attack, and this time no one came to rescue me from the threat of the orphan asylum. So off I went. It was utterly horrible there. I'm sure Miss Carlyle _meant_ well…but I fervently pray that orphanage is gone now. And then there was Edna…who tried and succeeded to break through my protective armor…and talked behind my back once I was safely her friend.

"It's ironic how I got here, then. Edna, Tessa…a new orphan…and I were to polish the front hall floor. Edna tricked me into doing a lot of the work by telling me there was going to be a lady coming to pick a useful girl and a pretty girl. I'm sure she thought she was going to be picked as pretty…but she wasn't, because as it happened, Mrs. Spencer wanted a _little_ girl and Edna was twelve already. And I made sure to be useful for the next few days until Mrs. Spencer came."

Anne sighed. Evidently she liked rather little talking of the people that had not wanted her…enough.

She absentmindedly checked her watch—and jumped up. "It's almost eight. Marilla will be worried about me."

"I'll walk you home," Gilbert offered, standing also.

Anne almost supported herself on Gilbert's proffered elbow, like a tired child.

"Anne…" said Gilbert solemnly. "I'm honored that you would entrust your story to me…but…why me? I'm only Gilbert."

Anne smiled at Gilbert as she reached the door. "Not only," she said. And then…dared he hope…he had seen a flash in her eyes of…?

And then Anne stepped into the Green Gables kitchen, and closed the door.


	25. Mrs Morgan and Miss Lavendar

**Again, going to be gone all weekend, so here's an early chapter!**

**Well, so jealous Christine Stuart won out over sympathetic Christine Stuart. I extend my apologies to the people who wanted her to be a _nice_ character, and my congratulations to the "winning side". **

**As for my vote? I don't even remember it. :)**

**Now go to the NEW poll and see about some Roy-bashing!**

**-M.R.**

_**Chapter Twenty-Five: Mrs. Morgan and Miss Lavendar**_

_She would have made a splendid wife, for crying only made her eyes more bright and tender._

-O. Henry, _Options_

Anne sighed heavily as the dory floated lazily about in the cool April-evening air. "I simply can not explain away your arriving at Green Gables just now to ask me boating," she laughed. "But however it came about, you've just saved my sanity."

Gilbert grinned. "Did it have something to do with the women who were leaving earlier?"

"Ugh, yes," Anne groaned. "You remember Priscilla Grant from Queen's? Well, her aunt is Mrs. Charlotte Morgan, one of my favorite authoresses. Priscilla wrote and said that Mrs. Morgan would come to visit on the twelfth of May at one o'clock. Diana, Marilla and I cooked and decorated all day…but the afternoon hours came and went…there was no sign of Mrs. Morgan, let alone a penitent Priscilla." The last two words rolled off of Anne's tongue and she tilted her head to one side, as though rather enjoying the alliteration.

"Mrs. Morgan hadn't any right to be so rude, even if she _is _a famous author," was Gilbert's emphatic verdict.

"I'm not done with my story," Anne protested. "Well, today I was spring-cleaning…had just finished shifting the down and feathers from my old bed-tick to the new one Marilla bought. I've helped you with yours before…so you may imagine what a sight I was when I was done changing a bed-tick by myself."

"Like a chicken."

"Oh HUSH. After I was done there was a knock on the door and it never occurred to me that Diana usually comes in at the kitchen door instead of waiting at the front. Gil, I needn't have to tell you that Priscilla and _Mrs. Morgan were at the door_! It came out later that Priscilla had _meant _to write '21 May', but got the dates mixed. And there I was looking…like a chicken…!"

"Anne Shirley," chuckled Gilbert, thoroughly enjoying himself. "You are to scrapes as _normal _people are to mosquitoes. What ever did you do?"

"Rose to the occasion…what else could I do?" said Anne tragically, waving her hand about.

"Run in circles, flail your arms about in the air and scream?"

"_Thank_ you, Mr. Blythe. Diana was the other person who has saved me from losing my mind to-day…she arrived presently, wearing _her_ white muslin and at least she had a roast chicken to save face. After I changed things went _all right_…Mrs. Morgan was still lovely…but if things had gone as they should then the day would have been _perfect_." Anne hugged her knees to her chest, resting her chin upon them as she stared at a particularly bright star. "I wish at least that I had been presentable when they showed up. Or if I had had to be doing something embarrassing, it would be _pretending to already have guests_, like Miss Lavendar and Charlotta…"

"Miss Lavendar?" said Gilbert, surprised at this sudden development. "Miss Lavendar Lewis?"

"You know her?" exclaimed Anne.

"No-o…I've only ever heard of her. She lives in Grafton, I think?"

"Yes. Diana and I took a wrong turning in Grafton a little less than a month ago, and I must say it was the best mistake I ever made…for we came upon Miss Lavendar's cottage. It's the most delightful place, Gil. She and her maid, Charlotta the Fourth, live there and eat whatever they want whenever they want, and flourish like roses. Charlotta the Fourth is really called Leonora…but her eldest sister was called Charlotta, and came to live with Miss Lavendar, and when she went to Boston the next sister volunteered, and they went on being called Charlotta when they came to work for her. They are _both_ very kindred spirits. Diana and I had tea there. And, oh, Gil, she isn't anything _like_ an old maid!"

"_Is _she an old maid?" Well…Gilbert ought to have supposed so, because Miss Lavendar had been a young woman in the days of all of the "current" parents in Avonlea…and Anne _was _referring to her as _Miss_,but still…

"It's absolutely tragical how she was thwarted in love," continued Anne dreamily, evidently eager for an audience, once again, for her "tragical" story. "She and Stephen Irving…Paul Irving's father…were in love, but they had had a fight and she wouldn't forgive him at first…she wanted to make him suffer his wrongfulness a little. I'm afraid he never came back…and she felt, oh, _so_ terrible, but what could she do? And of course Mr. Irving went and got married to someone else and had Paul. I'm thinking of taking Paul down to Echo Lodge sometime."

Gilbert didn't know what to say, but that was all right, because Anne was talking again.

"Miss Lavendar is perfectly lovely, Gil. And she is very lonely, I can tell, despite her cakes and candy and Charlotta…and the echoes in the valley; that is why the house is Echo Lodge…and her imagination. I've returned to visit only once since I met her, but I ought to go back again soon. You'd like her, Gilbert…I know you would. What if you come with me?"

Anne's invitation was accepted; Miss Lavendar, getting word from Anne, would be delighted to receive Anne and her friend; and when Gilbert helped Anne down from the buggy before Echo Lodge four days later Miss Lavendar was running out of the stone cottage, her hands wound up in her apron.

Miss Lavendar Lewis was a very pretty "old maid". Certainly she was of a different race than Marilla Cuthbert…she was not tall and gaunt and sere, but short—about four or five inches shorter than Anne—and "pleasingly plump", and wearing a lovely periwinkle gown, close to the color flower for which she had been named. Her wispy, pretty white hair was gathered in a soft bun rather like Anne's own, around her face, and her huge brown eyes sparkled with girlish glee as she approached her guests. "Anne! Hello! How was your ride? The sun is lovely today, isn't it…like a great lemon biscuit…? That reminds me…Charlotta!" this last directed over her shoulder. "Charlotta, take the lemon biscuits out of the oven!"

"Miss Lavendar," said Anne, grinning from ear to ear, "this is one of my kindred spirits, Gilbert Blythe. Gil, this is Lavendar Lewis. And this…" a young girl appeared, with a tray of yellow cookies, and whose crinkly brown hair was mostly obscured by large blue bows… "this is Charlotta the Fourth."

Having finished the introductions, the four sat down to lunch.

Gilbert found his hostess' baked goods and candy…not to mention the rest of lunch…to be quite superlative, and resolved that he must ask his mother to teach him how to cook.

Without a flowery apron.

Gilbert also found his hostess herself to be a kindred spirit, with her queenly bearing and yet frank, kind mien. _It's a shame Stephen Irving wouldn't marry her_, he thought sadly. But he was not sad long, for Miss Lavendar, seated next to him, engaged him in the conversation quite often, and he thought…and was quite right…that Miss Lavendar was become quite fond of him, one kindred spirit recognizing and accepting another.

After lunch had been demolished Charlotta rushed into the room, announcing her discovery of a great strawberry patch, and wouldn't Anne like to come help her pick some?

"Strawberries for dessert!" exclaimed Miss Lavendar delightedly. "Girls, when you come back with your strawberries we'll have them out there under the silver poplar. I'll have it all ready for you with home-grown cream."

Accordingly the two young women departed, armed with cups and baskets; and Gilbert escorted Miss Lavendar out to the silver poplar to await their return.

"I _do_ like you, Gilbert Blythe," said Miss Lavendar jubilantly. "It's nice to have young people around Echo Lodge again. Anne was right, you see."

"She often is," agreed Gilbert happily. A knowing light of comprehension and understanding stole into Miss Lavendar's eyes, but Gilbert babbled on, pretending he hadn't noticed. "I've become quite fond of you too, Miss Lavendar." He looked around at her garden. "This garden is exquisite, ma'am…those yellow roses…"

Miss Lavendar laughed aloud. "Gilbert, you needn't blather on like that. It isn't as though I don't know what you're thinking of…has Anne told you about me yet?"

"Yes," agreed Gilbert bluntly, wishing Anne hadn't; but he could no sooner lie to Miss Lavendar than _stop_ loving Anne.

"I'm glad…she trusts you that much, then. Anne wouldn't tell my story to any one that she didn't consider an intimate of herself." Miss Lavendar absently pulled at the grass.

"Does it hurt?" Gilbert asked, before he could stop himself.

But Miss Lavendar laughed again. "What, heartbreak? Of course it does, you silly boy. It hurts at first…but what I've found, is that life _won't_ let you be unhappy for very long. It pulls you out of the depths of despair and thrusts books—music—nature—friends and family—back into your face." She reached over and patted Gilbert's hand. "But I think you need not worry about having your heart broken, Gilbert. What I was going to say before, is: Promise me your story won't take the same direction as mine did."

"What?" said Gilbert, surprised.

"I mean I have seen Anne's temper—occasional flashes of it—and I know that she is just like I was in that respect. _Don't give up on Anne_. No matter if she gets very mad at you, no matter if she refuses your proposal _the first time_…Of course," concluded Miss Lavendar thoughtfully, "if she gets _married_, you might want to leave Anne to enjoy the rest of her life _then_…"

"Miss Lavendar!" exclaimed Gilbert, half-laughing, but also suddenly somewhat worried as to the easiness, or lack thereof, that he might encounter before reaching Anne's heart…!

Miss Lavendar laughed once again. "I'm dreadfully sorry…My friends used to call me 'the hopeless romantic cursed with a logical mind', and I suppose they are right. But faint heart never won fair lady, Gilbert…and don't you forget it."


	26. Observer

**Summer may be considered a relaxing time for most of us, but my weekends are really busy this month - so, again! early post!**

**-M.R.**

_**Chapter Twenty-Six: Observer**_

_I shot an arrow into the air,_

_It fell to earth, I knew not where…_

-Longfellow, _The Arrow and the Song_

_AVONLEA NOTES._

_A certain vivacious woman in Middle Grafton ought to know that she has two boys fighting for her favor: G. and P. They plan to stage a tournament before that lady's stone guerdon with her chickens. Chicken for dinner._

_Rumor has it that there will be a wedding in Avonlea ere the daisies are in bloom. A new and highly respected citizen will lead to the hymeneal altar one of our most popular ladies._

_A certain red-haired personage will be pleased to know that like likes like, and will probably win the hand of another with the same hair color, over their brown-haired opponent._

_Certain citizens of Avonlea will be pleased to remember that the AVIS carefully records every promise made concerning improvement…and it would be well to keep those promises…to avoid being observed in Charlottetown's illustrious _Daily Enterprise_ again._

_Uncle Abe, our well-known weather prophet, predicts a violent storm of thunder and lightning for the evening of the third of June, beginning at seven o' clock sharp. The area of the storm will extend over the greater part of the Province. People traveling that evening will do well to take umbrellas and mackintoshes with them._

_-Observer._

"What do you think?" asked Gilbert candidly, laying the _Daily Enterprise_ before astonished Anne. "I couldn't get all thirteen published…but everyone is suitably flummoxed by what I managed to get in."

"I didn't think you were actually going to _post_ them," Anne said dazedly…having been a co-author of the AVONLEA NOTES. "How ever did you get the _Enterprise_ to publish this nonsense?"

"Well, you know Oliver Sloane has got a post as secretary in the _Enterprise_…"

"Gil, you didn't!" exclaimed Anne.

Gilbert merely grinned, first at his astonished friend, then at his AVONLEA NOTES.

His smile faded soon, when Anne peered more closely at the third NOTE. "'_Red-haired…same…color'_ –Gilbert Blythe! I am going to KILL you!"

"What?" said Gilbert, trying to look innocent…although he was hoping Anne would not notice the NOTE that suggested that Charlie would come out best when it came to Gilbert. And courting Anne.

"I can't believe," Anne thrust the newspaper in his face, "that you would _do_ such a thing! Camille Bell will gloat over me to no end!"

"Cam—?" Gilbert choked back his incredulous exclamation. Would it _really_ harm Gilbert to have Anne think Gilbert was not _at all _concerned within that NOTE?

"Yes, you ninny!" cried Anne. "You and I both know Charlie Sloane…your first red-haired person…is dead gone on me…" expressionlessly… "and Camille Bell does NOT want him back. So now everyone will think Charlie and I are engaged!!"

"Mmmmmphhhh!" protested Gilbert. His indignation would have possessed more clarity had he not just been hit in the face with a sofa cushion. But he knew that if everyone thought of Gilbert and not Camille, which they likely would…Anne would have it just about right.

"Uncle Abe really has predicted a storm for sometime this spring," Gilbert after some time, picking down feathers out of his hair…and off of his tongue… "but do you suppose Mr. Harrison really _does_ go to see Isabella Andrews?"

"No," Anne, who best knew Mr. Harrison, promptly replied. "I'm sure he only goes to play checkers with Mr. Harmon Andrews, but Mrs. Lynde says she knows Isabella Andrews must be going to get married, she's in such good spirits this spring."

Gilbert hastily betook himself home…with his newspaper…lest Anne delve further into the "like likes like" NOTE.

The people who had discerned their own identities were indignant. Charlie Sloane was not only convinced, and quite rightly, that he was one of the "red-haired" people mentioned, but also he was annoyed with having to deny that he was the Observer…for who else would have written such a scathing prophecy for the Blythe-Sloane-Shirley love triangle? Messrs. Judson Parker and Hiram Sloane were so alarmed at the pricks to their consciences…or rather their honor…that a certain rotting fence was quietly torn down and a young rowan tree was as surreptitiously replanted. Uncle Abe especially denied having ever set a date for his storm, but in vain.

Miss Lavendar, however, was delighted that she, a damosel in distress, was to be tourneyed over by Gilbert and Paul. And at an impromptu dinner party, involving the knights, the damosel, and Anne and Charlotta the Fourth, there _were_ two fat capons…er, perished squires…presented.

They were the last of Miss Lavendar's beloved chickens that would ever be eaten.

The spring bloomed without incident; and by the third of June everyone could _tell_ that the summer months were on their way. In the White Sands schoolhouse Gilbert in a suit and tie envied his students their light sun-wear, although they, too, sweated profusely as their heads bent over long division.

All day the sun's light had been waxing and waning, as on a cloudy day; when it was momentarily quenched it was too dark to work and the students slumped back in their seats with a sigh of relief; but this time the sun darkened and the next thing they knew was a horrible _CRASH_ of thunder and lightning.

The girls screamed, and the boys yelled and threw hastily-crafted paper airplanes at each other.

The thunder and lightning _CRASH_ed again…this time accompanied by heavy rain.

Gilbert was at a loss for what to do, as his pupils screamed and gibbered. They were so far out of town…how on earth was he supposed to send them home in such weather? He couldn't!

There were five windows in the classroom: one each on the walls on either side of Gilbert's desk, one behind him, and the door was between the last two. At this interesting moment it began to hail. A particularly large chunk of icy hail made a terrific _SMASH_ as it came sailing through the window behind Gilbert.

Tommy Blewett, age eleven, set up a high-pitched wail that was soon taken up by a few girls. The rest of the girls had either fainted or were having hysterics.

"Everyone get into the center of the room!" Gilbert shouted over Tommy Blewett. "Stay away from the windows!"

"But Teacher," said six-year-old Lily Snap, the only girl who was still conscious and sensible. "The desks are in the way."

It was true. The desks were quite firmly nailed to the floor, whatever might be said of the schoolhouse's faults.

"Never mind the desks. I guess you can sit on top of them if you need to."

Sit on top of the desks! The boys grinned round at each other in a sudden wave of amusement. Teacher _was_ a brick, after all. The boys even assisted in escorting hysterical and unconscious female classmates into the center of the room.

Gilbert clambered up onto a middle desk, while his students huddled round him. "Now," he said, rather cheerfully, considering the fact that every window in the school was broken away and the floor could not be seen for hail, "what shall we do?"

"Sing?" suggested a frilly little creature, who had just revived and was looking round at the assembly with interest.

"Scream and shout!" said thirteen-year-old Teddy McEwan…Ned's younger brother…with a nod at the still-shrieking Tommy Blewett.

"Let's tell stories!" exclaimed Lily enthusiastically; and again it was her suggestion that was hailed with agreement.

"Okay," approved Gilbert. "Lily, you go first."

The small girl thought hard for a moment. "Okay. Once 'pon a time there was a prince and a princess."

"What were their names?" asked a tow-headed boy.

"The princess was called Claira and the prince was called Prince Gilbert."

Gilbert looked at Lily, who stared guilelessly back at him.

"I like the name," she explained…then, "It's for handsome boys, like princes, and that's why you've got it as a name, I think."

"So…what became of the princess?" asked Gilbert hastily.

"Well, and the princess had a lot of pet cats who were bad and one nice little cat named George. One day she was walking on the road with the prince. And she told George, 'You mustn't come with me when I'm walking.' But George came with her when she was walking. And then they passed a brook. And then George fell in. And George couldn't swim, 'cause he didn't learn how, and he was drownded." Lily nodded meditatively.

"What did the princess say?" asked Gilbert, when Lily didn't show any signs of continuing her story.

"Oh, she cried an awful lot," Lily assured her teacher. "So she borrowed a piece of string from the prince and tied it to George's drownded ear and dragged him home. And when she got home she took George and she put him up on a shelf to dry for seed."

A burst of laughter greeted the intriguing end of Lily's story. Some more children made up stories, and eventually the storm let up and the children went home, wading through the ankle-deep muddy water and exclaiming gleefully over floating branches.

Gilbert sighed and swept up what he could of hail and glass, then rode Braveheart into Avonlea.

It was one o' clock in the afternoon when he dismounted before Green Gables and waded into the house to find Marilla Cuthbert busily nailing oilcloth over the windowframes.

"Let me help you with that," he offered.

"Thank you, Gilbert," smiled Marilla. She shook a nail at the windowframe. "Goodness only knows when we'll get glass for them. Mr. Barry went over to Carmody this afternoon but not a pane could he get for love or money. Lawson and Blair were cleaned out by the Carmody people by ten o' clock. Was the storm bad at White Sands, Gilbert?"

"I should say so!" exclaimed Gilbert, giving Marilla an account of the morning's events. Marilla let out a peal of laughter upon hearing Lily Snap's story.

Davy and Dora showed up presently. Dora ran to Gilbert and hugged his legs, but Davy was talking. "I only squealed once. My garden was all smashed flat, but so was Dora's. Say, Gilbert, wasn't that a bully storm?"

"You ought not to say such things," Marilla said severely. "I'm sure people were hurt or killed if they got caught out there."

Anne, too, came running down from her room, struggling into a blue sweater. "Hello, Gilbert. Miss Lavendar's and Hester Gray's gardens are probably blown to pieces, and I bet Miss Lavendar's chickens are all gone…you know how they run free. I'm going over to see Mr. Harrison," she announced to the company at large. "John Henry Carter says Ginger was killed in the storm and even if that bird was the bane of my existence I know Mr. Harrison'd like me to visit."

But Anne never made it into Mr. Harrison's house. Gilbert and Marilla stopped putting up oilcloth to watch as Anne was overtaken on the road by a buggy. They could not see the person driving, except that she was short and black-haired, and had "outlandish taste in bonnets"…Marilla's verdict. Certainly she was not from the Island. The woman and Anne exchanged a few words; then the unknown woman continued in her buggy up to Mr. Harrison's house…while Anne fled back to the safety of Green Gables.

"Anne, who was that woman?" queried Marilla, when Anne came in at the door, flushed and panting.

"Marilla, do I look as though I were crazy?" Anne asked in her turn.

"Not more so than usual,"…Gilbert and Marilla said _in unison_…then shared a commiserating glance.

But Anne was not to be quenched. "Well, then, do you think that I am awake?"

Marilla sighed. "Anne, what nonsense has gotten into you? Who _was_ that woman, I say?"

"If I'm not crazy and I'm not asleep," said Anne tragically, "she can't be such stuff as dreams were made of…she must be _real_. Anyway I'm sure even _I_ couldn't have imagined such a bonnet…she says she is _Mr. Harrison's wife_!!"

"What?!" exclaimed Gilbert, and Marilla said, "His _wife_! Anne Shirley! But then what has he been passing himself off as an unmarried man for?"

"I don't suppose he _did_, really. He never said he wasn't married," Anne hedged. "People simply took it for granted."

When Mrs. Rachel Lynde had come over to offer her opinion on the subject, Anne took Gilbert aside.

"We should never have published those NOTES," she lamented.

"Don't you go and take credit for _my_ getting them printed, Anne Shirley!" Gilbert said in mock indignation. Then he added, "But I _do_ almost feel as though we 'magicked' up the storm, Anne. And Mrs. Harrison, for that matter."

Anne nodded solemnly; but her eyes were dancing. "Except for the bonnet."


	27. Hope Rekindled

**I hope you've enjoyed the story so far...Kudos if you can figure out where I got little Lily's surname from in the previous chapter!**

**I really don't want to have someone post for me while I'm in China, so will update twice a week, every Sunday and Wednesday, before I leave on the 26th.**

**-M.R.**

_**Chapter Twenty-Seven: Hope Rekindled**_

_Maybe I'm brainless, maybe I'm wise. But you've got me seeing through different eyes. Somehow I've fallen under your spell, and somehow I'm feeling it's up that I fell!_

_­_-_As Long As You're Mine, _Wicked

After Thomas Lynde's funeral Mrs. Lynde sold her house and came to live at Green Gables with Marilla and the twins. Anne needed not be added to the list, because she had informed Gilbert of her also enrolling to be at Redmond College in the fall.

"But meanwhile," she said eagerly, "I have _such_ news for you. You know Paul had been living with his grandmother all this time. Well, Paul wrote to his father in San Francisco about Miss Lavendar and Mr. Irving came straight back to the Island. I took him to see Miss Lavendar two days ago, and now they are to be married!" Anne clasped her hands before her stomach. "I know I probably should not have indulged in matchmaking…but now they are engaged and if I'm not careful of my initial success some day I may try again."

Accordingly after a whirlwind two weeks of preparations and suchlike, Miss Lavendar's wedding day…the fifth of July…arrived. It dawned cold and gray, and potentially rainy.

"But anyways a cool, pearly gray day like this would really be nicer than hot sunshine," sighed Anne happily, when Gilbert arrived at the stone house around seven o' clock in the morning to find Anne, Diana, and Charlotta the Fourth already up, dressed and working.

Lavendar Lewis and Stephen Irving were married at noon in the garden at Echo Lodge, under the honeysuckle arbor which breathed its faint sweet perfume over them, like a god's blessing. Gilbert was escort for Anne, the maid of honor, and was quite athrill inside at sweeping up the aisle with that graceful creature on his arm.

Well, it was good practice.

"I now pronounce you Mr. and Mrs. Irving," smiled Mr. Allan, and the clouds parted at that very moment, and the birds broke out into liquid warbles. The girls all gasped in delight and sprang forward to kiss the beautiful bride.

Gilbert congratulated the happy couple last, and Miss Lavendar's—_Mrs. Irving, now,_ he reminded himself—eyes as she beamed upon Gilbert showed that although her prince had returned to the enchanted castle, she wanted him to remember his unspoken promise. He nodded his agreement, once again.

When _Mrs. Irving_ had changed into a traveling-suit and got her bags and boxes together, the Irvings emerged from Echo Lodge amidst a flurry of rice thrown by the girls and Gilbert, and an old shoe…thrown by Charlotta the Fourth. Paul ran about clanging the great dinner-bell, and the ringing was so loud that the bell's echo reverberated from the valley, "like faerie wedding bells," Anne whispered.

Then the Irvings and Paul piled into a buggy with Charlotta, and Anne and Diana shared a buggy also, as they drove to the Bright River train station to see the newlyweds off.

Gilbert clambered into his buggy alone. Not only did he have an errand to carry out for his mother after the farewell, but he wanted to be alone…to think.

For six…almost seven…years, Gilbert had cherished a dogged admiration for Anne Shirley. They had not spoken; they had hated each other; they had quarreled; they were now good friends…the best of chums…kindred spirits.

Dared he hope that Anne, who he had gazed unabashedly and admiringly on for six years, would some day soon look his way?

**XXX**

"Good-by!" wept Anne and Diana, waving their handkerchiefs at the Irvings in the train. They were on their way to the ferry, which would take them to the mainland, from whence the Irvings would take a ship to Europe.

"'Bye!" gurgled Charlotta the Fourth, sobbing heartily into her handkerchief.

Gilbert put an arm around Paul Irving, and the two stood and waved and waved until the train was gone.

"I think I shall like Mother Lavendar," announced Paul cheerfully. "I know for a fact that she is a kindred spirit…and anyways, Mother Lavendar is not like a wicked stepmother in a story-book. She knows she can never take the place of my little mother…but she has made a new, equally dear place for herself in me. Isn't that possible, Gilbert?"

Yes, Gilbert was sure it was.

Diana took Paul home soon afterwards, while Anne and Charlotta returned to Echo Lodge to clean up after the party. Gilbert did not envy them their task…it always seemed so _woeful_ to remove the traces of a party after the guests had all left.

Leaving the post office, Gilbert ran into Charlie Sloane, nearly dropping two books of stamps.

"Gilbert!" exclaimed Charlie delightedly. "How are you?"

"I'm great!" replied Gilbert enthusiastically, for he was in a good mood. "I've just come from a wedding."

"Who's got married? Oh, you mean Mr. Irving." Charlie smiled ruefully. "First the Irvings and now Fred. Soon we'll be the only bachelors 'round Avonlea, Gilbert!"

"But we're not staying in Av—wait, what?" Gilbert nearly dropped his stamps again. "_Fred_? _Fred Wright_ is getting married?"

"Well, yes, he told me himself," replied Charlie cheerfully. "To Diana Barry, didn't you know?"

Gilbert burst out laughing. Fred and Diana? We-ell…there had been coincidences and odd phrases, but Gilbert had never really taken Fred seriously…"When are they marrying?"

"Next summer, actually." Charlie tipped his hat to Gilbert. "Well, Gil, I ought to be going…see you at the Festival."

"Right," echoed Gilbert dully. The Carmody Summer festival. "Later, Charlie."

Gilbert stood around for a few minutes before remembering he had to go, too…to take Anne home from Echo Lodge.

On the Lewis lane he left the buggy, and soon met Charlotta the Fourth coming towards him, carrying a large covered basket…but he hardly noticed her.

Anne was sitting on the step before the locked door to Echo Lodge, wearing her "I look like I'm paying attention; but I'm really off in faerie lands unknown" face.

"What are you thinking of, Anne?" he asked, though unwilling to startle her.

Anne jumped and looked 'round at Gilbert. She did indeed look as if she had been wandering afar, star-led. "Of Miss Lavendar and Mr. Irving," she said finally. "Isn't it beautiful to think how everything has turned out? How they have come together again after years of separation of understanding?"

Gilbert offered his elbow, and together they walked down the lane again to his buggy.

"Yes, it _is_ beautiful," he agreed quietly, smiling down at his unknowing beloved, "but…wouldn't it have been more beautiful still, Anne, if there had been no separation…no misunderstanding…if they had come hand-in-hand all the way through life, with no memories behind them but those which belonged to each other…?"

And for the first time in their ever knowing each other, Anne failed to meet his eyes…for the first time, she blushed at his words…and for the first time since Gilbert could remember, perhaps…perhaps…perhaps Anne had reached out, slowly and hesitantly, and caught at a wisp of the emotions that Gilbert was…as of yet…too shy to convey.


	28. Secrets

**OH my goodness! ****I am going to see**

**_JONATHAN CROMBIE_**

**in _The Drowsy Chaperone_ in San Francisco next month!! Oh, my goodness! Insane amounts of joy! Hooray!**

**-M.R.**

_**Chapter Twenty-Eight: Secrets**_

_Things do not change; we change._

-Thoreau, _Walden_

As July progressed, it was finally time for the Carmody Summer Festival, celebrating the passage of summer into autumn.

Gilbert, Diana, Fred, Anne, Charlie, Moody, Ruby, and Jane all planned to meet at the Festival and share a table.

So it was that on the day of the Festival, Gilbert and Moody sat at a table near the outdoor Grecian amphitheatre, twiddling their thumbs and drinking lemonade.

"Gil! Moody!" It was Fred…and Diana.

Gilbert began to find that it was odd having Fred engaged. Had it been only Fred that had just shown up, he, Moody, and Gilbert would now have exchanged banter and jokes and witty dialogue. But…even if Fred was engaged to _Diana Barry_…who Gilbert knew well…it just wasn't the same.

"What is being presented first?" asked Diana presently, opening the programme next to her plate.

"The church choir, dear," said Fred sweetly, leaning over to kiss Diana on the cheek.

Moody, Gilbert, Jane, and Charlie…the last two of which had arrived just at this odd moment…stared at each other aghast. Fred was…well, had been…_the most sensible boy_ of the old quartet, and now he was entirely useless.

Diana was fairly sensible too. So why was she allowing herself to be mooned over in such a way?

_Maybe she likes it,_ his mind chided him sarcastically. It was curious, how much the voice in his head sounded like Charlie, but then, Charlie was always popping up when one least expected him.

"Hello all!" squealed Ruby, arriving in a flurry of lace and muslin. "Sorry I'm late!"

Translation: Even you, my old friends, will notice me—simper, simper, flutter, flutter—when I arrive fashionably late.

Well, she _was_ late...the choir had begun. And they _did _notice her. "Hello, Ruby," chorused Gilbert, Charlie, Jane, Moody, and FredandDiana.

The choir went on singing.

_All things bright and beautiful,_

_All creatures great and small…_

"Where's Anne?" asked Diana.

Gilbert felt inordinately stupid as they all looked round in surprise, exchanging exclamations. Why hadn't _he _thought of that? Why hadn't _he_ noticed Anne was not there?

"Hallo," said Oliver Sloane, coming over to their table just then. "Are you using this seat?" indicating the empty chair between Gilbert and Jane. "I need to—"

"Of course we are," said Gilbert hotly, causing all of them to look at him in alarm. "We're saving this chair for Anne Shirley."

Oliver shrugged and walked off.

Gilbert repeated this strange performance several more times through the evening, when Anne failed to materialize.

"Um…Gilbert…?" asked Jane hesitantly, three hours later, after Gilbert's glowering brow and sharp words had sent an eleventh applicant scurrying away. "I don't think Anne's coming."

"Of course she will," Gilbert airily reassured her. "Anne knows how we'd feel if she didn't show."

_Like wanting to kill her,_ he griped inwardly, pedaling up Main Street in Carmody the next day.

It wasn't the first time Anne had failed to show up at an event since Miss Lavendar's wedding, either. But the other occurrences had been minor ones, and the Festival was the last straw.

Gilbert skidded to a stop on his bicycle, sending gravel flying everywhere, and parking it against a porch post of the general store, went in to get buttons for his best suit which he was packing for Redmond.

The transaction took only a few minutes and soon Gilbert was outside again, dropping his buttons into the bicycle basket.

Looking up, he saw a red-haired young woman in gray twill and a hat emerge from the post office reading a letter. He couldn't see her face, but he did see the way she trudged down the steps as she read. Lowering the paper from her eyes, the young woman slapped her thigh in frustration, tossed her handbag carelessly into _her_ bicycle basket, grabbed ahold of the handles, and continued trudging.

Neither did Gilbert waste time by mounting his own bicycle; he dragged it along after him and, catching up, neatly grabbed the letter out of startled Anne's hands. "So, this why you keep disappearing on me every time we plan something!" he exclaimed triumphantly.

"Gilbert Blythe!" protested Anne, clawing frantically at the letter which Gilbert held smugly over her head.

"All this secrecy," he pouted. "You never even talk to your friends anymore."

"You—! Give that back or I _won't_ speak to you again!"

"Well, we can't have _that_…again. So touchy," Gilbert sighed. Really, he hadn't even got a chance to read the letter. But he handed it back to Anne anyways.

"Thank you." As though thinking they _could_ just not speak again, Anne said no more, but mounted her bicycle and began pedaling.

"You know, people think you've been acting very peculiarly lately," Gilbert informed Anne, trotting and leading his bike beside her. "I might as well tell you so. Why weren't you at Mamie Wright's wedding two weeks ago? Or Prissy Andrews' farewell party? Or the Carmody Summer Festival? I saved you a seat at our table."

To say the least.

"I was…busy," Anne prevaricated. "Marking up my finals."

"Anne, you had your finals marked and posted to the Board before I did!" exclaimed Gilbert hotly. But really, those Biology exams had been _hard_…so, even if Anne didn't know it, having beaten Gilbert in this respect was no great achievement. "What are you up to?"

Anne rolled her eyes unconvincingly. "Nothing!"

Gilbert just looked at her.

"It's a completely personal matter…?" Anne hedged.

Gilbert sighed again. "Well, I suppose it _must_ be, if you can't keep your word anymore!"

"Good grief!" Anne grumbled. "You know how to try one's patience, don't you?!" And before he knew it, Anne was cycling rapidly away.

Gilbert scrambled to get onto his own bike and was soon whizzing over the covered bridge after her. "Don't get up on your high horse with _me_, Anne Shirley! I cycled all over trying to find you so that I could tell you something I found out about Diana Barry last month!"

Eventually Anne relented.

"You are a real _pill_, Gilbert Blythe," she sighed as they walked their bikes along the road to Avonlea. "What about Diana Barry?"

But Gilbert laughed in her face. "Uh-unh, Miss Shirley. Not until you spill the beans."

Anne made a face at him. "You won't say anything to your folks?" she pleaded. "Or Jane Andrews, or Ruby Gillis, or Charlie Sloane?"

"On my honor."

"And promise you won't ever _tease_ me about this," she demanded.

"I promise you, Anne," Gilbert said…somewhat hesitantly. "I wouldn't want to risk your _anger_."

Anne smiled and shook her head, but she still handed Gilbert the letter.

It was not really a letter; more of a circular with Anne's name typed into the allotted space after the salutation. "'Dear Miss Shirley.' Ooh, 'miss'. 'We regret to return the enclosed manuscript, _Averil's Atonement_, but are unable to accept it for publication. Sincerely yours, _Women's Home Journal Magazine_'?!"

"You know the story I wrote this spring? I'm attempting to have it published," Anne explained.

Gilbert flapped the paper at her. "Anne—that's tremendous!" He grabbed ahold of the little copper bell on her bike and began to wiggle the switch so that the metallic trill filled the air. "Listen to this, everybody!" he yelled: "Avonlea's public school teacher soon to become Canadian authbbppppp—!"

"It hasn't happened yet, you fool!" cried Anne. "And don't you dare tell anyone.

"Ugh." Anne regarded her palm with some disgust, and wiped his saliva off on his vest.

"Serves you right for shutting me up," Gilbert smirked.

Anne merely slapped him in the face with her letter and dragged her bike along again. "Now what's all the fuss about Diana Barry?"

"Well, from what I understand, she's…going on an extended vacation next summer," Gilbert supplied vaguely.

"Is that all?" Anne seemed unruffled. "Where is she going?"

"You mean, with _whom_ is she going," he corrected her.

"All right, with whom, then? What difference does it make?"

"Fred Wright obviously makes a lot of difference to her," concluded Gilbert triumphantly.

Anne stopped and looked at Gilbert, comprehension dawning. "Oh! You mean about their wedding? It isn't as thought I didn't know, Gil. I may be somewhat out of the round lately but Diana _is_ my bosom friend," she said dryly.

"Oh," said Gilbert, somewhat lamely. "Well, but what do you think of it?"

"Not much. Of all the stupid, sentimental things for Diana to _do_!" Anne exclaimed, sitting down upon a convenient pile of logs. "I mean…we never knew it was like this! She probably only accepted because Fred was the only person to ever ask her!"

Gilbert himself was somewhat uncomfortable with sharing a bosom friend with a member of the opposite gender…but this was going a bit _too_ far! "Don't be silly. Fred's a terrific fellow."

"Well, he better steer clear of me," retorted Anne with unusual vim. "He has no business waltzing in and stealing my best friend!"

"You're not jealous, are you?" asked Gilbert hopefully.

Anne considered. Gilbert wondered what he would do if she said yes. Leap up and begin to dance, most likely.

"No," she said after a moment. "Just disappointed. Why do people have to _grow up_—and _marry_—and _change_!"

"Oh, you'd change," Gilbert reassured her. "If someone ever told you they were head over heels for you," _someone like, erm, me, for example! _"…you'd be swept off your feet in a moment!"

"I would _not_!" protested Anne. "And I defy anyone who would try to make me change."

_Sigh._ Not that Gilbert wasn't used to being defied by Anne, but…this was different. "You do?" he challenged her dubiously.

For answer Anne stood and got on her bike again.

As he followed, Anne laughed, as she risked her neck peeking over her shoulder to see how far Gilbert was behind. "Last one to the bridge is a stuffed goose!"

Riding through Lovers' Lane, Gilbert nearly fell off of his bicycle trying to follow Anne's sudden maneuver into a narrow bypath. "Cheaters never prosper, Anne Shirley!!"

Anne only threw another laugh over her shoulder in reply.

But the real coup was when Anne cleverly dodged a dog and a boy on the bridge and had the pleasure of seeing Gilbert swerving after her and falling into Barry's Pond, bicycle and all.

He could hear her beautiful laugh even as the water rushed into his ears. "You've had it now, Miss Shirley!" Floundering upwards, Gilbert grabbed his beloved old gray cap, which was floating merrily away, and scrambled after Anne.

Rustling through the hedges, nearly doubled over with laughter, he nearly crashed headlong into Anne and her bicycle, who together were doing a clever imitation of Lot's wife in the Bible, turned into a pillar of salt.

Before them, Diana Barry sat on a stile, where Fred was whispering into her ear.

Seeing Gilbert behind her, Anne also began laughing, which drew the lovers' attention.

Fred looked very discomfited. "Um, thank you for the lovely walk, Diana," he mumbled, shoving his hands into his pockets.

"Oh, please thank your mother for the crochets." Diana bestowed a dazzling smile upon her fiancé and turned to Gilbert and Anne with a quiet pride upon her face. "Myra Gillis had 37 doilies made when she got married, and, well, I'm determined to have at least as many as she had."

"I suppose it would be impossible to keep house with only 36 doilies," conceded Anne, "but I assure you, Mr. Wright, that Diana will be the sweetest little homemaker in the world, so long as you can afford to let her keep up with the Gillises."

Dead silence. Fred red; Diana biting her lip, her eyes welling up; Anne expressionless as Gilbert gazed upon her in shock. What on earth had possessed her to say such a spiteful thing?!

Oh. Diana's being married, of course.

"Well, um, I hope so," said Fred at last. "Goodbye, Diana…Gilbert, Anne." Wringing his hat in his hands, he turned and left the scene.

Not only was Gilbert afraid that Diana would cry in front of him, but realizing letting his bicycle remain in the Pond was neither conducive to keeping said bicycle rust-free _or_ replacing his suit buttons, he hastily said, "Well—I'd better go get my—er—bicycle—talk to you ladies later."

Gilbert overtook Fred on the bridge.

"I wonder why Anne Shirley said that," said Fred. "I mean, Diana's her best friend…"

"I think," said Gilbert, "that she's just being prickly because she is used to having Diana all to herself, so to speak. Give it time."


	29. Anne's Atonement

**Okay, so we DO have Internet access whilst in China. I feel a little inordinately stupid now. Oh, well. Still, though, I don't want to begin _Unromantic Ideal_ until the end of August as that is when the first chapter actually takes place.**

**However, I will be posting the second chapter of _Crimson Girl_, another L.M. Montgomery story, about a character who has captivated me since reading _Anne's House of Dreams_ in middle school. I'm sure those of you who are already some little bit acquainted with Leslie Moore find her as thrilling as I do.**

**-M.R.**

_**Chapter Twenty-Nine: Anne's Atonement**_

_The best laid schemes o' mice and men_

_Gang aft agley,_

_An' lea'e us nought but grief and pain,_

_For promised joy!_

-Burns, _To A Mouse_

"Gil," said his mother exasperatedly, "don't you _ever_ pay any attention? _These_ are _flat _buttons. Your suit has _shank buttons_. How on earth am I supposed to help you with your things for Redmond if you can't even tell your buttons apart?!"

"I'm sorry, mother," said Gilbert humbly. He had been so wrapped up in confusion and speculation as to Anne's disappearances, before he'd seen her, the week before, that probably the store clerk could have sold him rutabagas and he would have taken them home to be sewn onto his suit. "I'll just go and return these, then, and buy new ones, shall I?"

Yet Gilbert...as well as the rest of the patrons of Lawson's…would not be able to buy buttons, or for that matter anything else, today.

Covering the top half of Lawson's General Store…including the sign…was a massive banner, proclaiming CONGRATULATIONS ANNE SHIRLEY, AVONLEA'S OWN WINNER OF THE ROLLINGS RELIABLE BAKING POWDER STORY COMPETITION!

At this interesting moment Anne herself dashed up, looking frenzied and distracted. She stopped dead about three yards before the store...and the sign…mouthing _Rollings Reliable…?_ as if she did not know…? and fled into the store.

His curiosity piqued, Gilbert followed discreetly inside.

The store was jam-packed with more or less the entire Island…those who knew Anne, anyways…pyramids of cans of Rollings Reliable Baking Powder…and pink, blue, green, and orange pamphlets.

"Anne Shirley!" exclaimed Alice Lawson, doing a credible imitation of a leech by latching on to Anne's arm and propelling her forwards into the crowd. "We've been looking for you everywhere! Avonlea's famous authoress!"

The store began clapping.

Anne picked up a pamphlet, peered at it, and said, "But I—"

"Father, come out here!" cried Alice, and her father obliged. "Oh! Miss Shirley!"

"I don't understand!" exclaimed Anne.

"You won the contest, you goose!" beamed Alice, "and I knew you'd go into it behind all our backs!"

"It is my great pleasure," said Mr. Lawson, "as official purveyor to Avonlea for the Rollings Reliable Baking Powder Company, to read this, the following tribute, to Miss Anne Shirley, Green Gables, P.E.I.

"'Dear Madam, we have much pleasure in informing you that your charming story, _Averil's Atonement_, has won the one hundred dollar grand prize in our recent contest for a story introducing the name of our revered product! We have arranged publication of the story in several prominent newspapers across the country and will supply it in pamphlet form for distribution among our patrons! Thanking you for the interest you have shown in our enterprise, we remain, very truly the Rollings Reliable Baking Powder Company."

Lawson handed Anne the check, which she seemed to take dazedly. The entire thing had been punctuated by applause…of which Gilbert had been a hearty contributor…and now a fresh wave broke out as Anne turned, attempting to make her way out of the store, and Gilbert saw her face for the first time.

His own grin faded.

Anne was deathly pale; her freckles stood out in further prominence; she looked at once as though she was going to collapse, and as though she wanted to smash Lawson's entire inventory of slates over some one's head.

Despite this last, extremely unsettling comparison, Gilbert made his way swiftly towards her. "Anne! Are you all right?"

Anne looked at him like a desert traveler would an oasis, and clutched at his arm. "Get me out of here, would you, Gil? I think I may faint."

They…Gilbert, at least…pushed and shoved their way out onto the sidewalk, where Anne fell into an amazed Diana's arms.

"Anne! Oh, I'm wild with delight!" cried Diana, gesticulating at the large sign. "I was _sure_ it would win when I sent it in to the competition!"

"You _what_?!" exclaimed Gilbert, and "Diana Barry!" ejaculated Anne incredulously.

"Yes, I did! Oh, I thought of your story in a _minute _when I saw the ad in the paper! I was going to tell you to send it in yourself, but I figured you had so little faith left in you that you _wouldn't_. So I sent in _my_ copy...then if it didn't work then you'd never know that my idea was a failure…Anne, you don't look a bit pleased!"

Anne said something in reply, but Gilbert was reading _Averil's Atonement_ from one of the pamphlets.

_**Averil's Atonement**_

_**by Anne Shirley**_

_The wind whispered mysteriously through the slim waving birch trees. The moon was a perfect glowing roundel between the tempestuous dark branches._

_The clearing in the middle of all the birches was fairly large, and usually empty…except for to-night._

_From the shadow of the tallest birch tree stepped a young woman of radiant beauty. Her alabaster brow was as pale and luminescent as the moon above, and her long, billowy, pale gold hair streamed back from her face in the wind like a curtain. _

_At her wrists and throat were blond lace several shades darker than her lovely tresses. The lace perfectly complimented the rich, bloodred velvet that comprised her princess dress and puffed sleeves. Her eyes were a brilliant blue._

_Averil Lester stepped fully into the moonlit clearing, her arms trailing gracefully through the air as she strode._

Gilbert looked 'round at Anne in alarm. Anne might be romantic and melodramatic, but…"alabaster brow"? What was an alabaster brow?

_Averil lifted her beautiful eyes up to the moon. She breathed the chilly air deeply, as though the inhalance would bring about some magical change._

_In fact, she had been dreaming of the empty clearing in the Grove of Dryads—the birch forest—for three months now, and each time she had the dream she immediately awoke, and could not find sleep again for the rest of the night. Consequently…_

The description of Averil went on for several pages, until she was met by Robert Ray, a small boy who was the servant of the man Averil loved.

…_and as Robert Ray watched in mute horror, Maurice Lennox, lord of the Marble Fields, swept Averil off into the night in his dark phaeton, whose ponies were black as their scoundrel master's heart, and whose eyes were blazing as live embers._

_Robert Ray ran swiftly through the night, as though he were one of that wicked band, and woke up his master, Percival Dalrymple, who was in love, though she knew it not, with the fair Averil._

"_O my!" moaned dark, handsome Percival. "What ever shall I do without my beloved Averil? O, I shall die! O Averil! My love! My love! O love of my life!"_

"_You must rescue her," said Robert Ray._

Maurice Lennox, it seemed, was a King of Goblins, and commanded Averil to act as a Queen of Goblins should; i.e., cook, bake, and clean for him. Averil refused, but Maurice tricked her into eating an enchanted peach. Evidently Averil had never heard the popular faerie-tale chant "We must not look at goblin men, we must not eat their fruit".

_She could do naught but oblige him; for what might Lord Lennox do to her should she refuse?_

_Averil carefully arranged her ingredients—her butter, her eggs—and of course, her most important ingredient, ROLLINGS RELIABLE BAKING POWDER, and making sure her pans were all in order, began making a cake for the evil goblins…_

But after about half the pamphlet, in which Averil's cake was described for a long, long time, Percival arrived and dumped half a bottle of poison into the cake batter.

_Maurice Lennox had only time to utter a wicked "Ha! ha!" before he fell to the ground, writhing in the throes of blackguardery and arsenic…_

"_Wilt thou give up thy garter, o fairest of the fair?"_

"_Yes, my Percival!"_

_Percival clasped his darling, beloved Averil to his breast in an ecstasy of happiness. "Sweetheart, the beautiful coming years will bring us the fulfillment of our home o' dreams, in which we will never use any baking powder except ROLLINGS RELIABLE."_

_THE END._

Gilbert lowered the story from his eyes with a feeling of…what was it?

Not _disgust_. Not _quite_ disgust. But…something. Something that boded ill for Averil's atonement. (What had Averil atoned for, anyways? Being beautiful? The story didn't say.)

He'd seen Anne's writing before…sometimes when she was in a good humor, and showed him; other times when he'd peeked at Anne's work and noticed, during a study session at his house, that the papers Anne was bent so diligently over were not sent from Redmond professors, and Gilbert had been subsequently chased about the house with a slate. She could write so much better then this.

Anne owed Gilbert an explanation…


	30. Pitching and Mooning

**Forty-three percent, respectively, voted that Roy Gardner was a Gilbert wannabe, or else, going to die if one of the voters met him; while the other twelve percent agree that Roy is a pouf. (Fortunately, the option "Anne's One True Love" was left blank.) The new poll inquires as to your top two favorites of the "Anne" books.**

**If you've seen the second movie, and have looked at the chapter title, you already know exactly why you'll enjoy this final installment!**

**-M.R.**

_**Chapter Thirty: Pitching and Mooning**_

"_I feel as if I had opened a book and found roses of yesterday, sweet and beloved, between its leaves."_

-L.M. Montgomery, _Anne of the Island_

"How do you think a _mother_ would feel if she found her child tattooed all over with a _baking powder advertisement_?" queried Anne. She sighed, a long, deep exhalation that blew over her entire being, ruffling the lace on her blouse and causing the petals of the flowers in her basket to quiver indignantly. "I love my story, and I wrote it out of the best that was in me." Anne's limpid, huge eyes searched Gilbert's face, eager for encouragement or at least solace.

_Poor Anne,_ thought Gilbert sympathetically, as he led Braveheart patiently along behind them, _it's no wonder she's so anxious. She's been tossed about by crowds and had pencils and pamphlets flung in her face all day, and I guess it must be embarrassing to know that people think the best you could get to publish your story was an advertisement for _baking powder, _of all the prosaic nonsense. _"Ah, you're just tired," he reassured her, putting a friendly arm around her shoulders.

Anne stiffened and sped up, causing Gilbert's arm to fall limply back to his side.

Nothing daunted, Gilbert continued, "Besides, why should you care? A hundred dollars is more than either of us would make in two months' teaching, anyway!"

"Blood money," groaned Anne. "And Josie Pye and Tillie Boulter can't _wait_ to pounce on it."

"They're spiteful old cats!" Gilbert scoffed. "You're just the first person in poky old Avonlea who's tried anything like that." To make his point…as he had done several years ago as Anne limped around the corner of the Spurgeon house…Gilbert squeezed her elbow…

And Anne moved away again! She knelt in the side of the road, heaping lilacs into her basket…which was very odd. Anne was not fond of lilacs.

Somewhat daunted this time, Gilbert was also less confident about his encouraging Anne. "All pioneers are considered to be afflicted with moonstruck madness," he said lamely.

"I'm _mad_," came a voice from somewhere in the middle of the lilacs' heady, cloying scent, "to think I can write anything better than a baking powder advertisement! This has dampened any spark of ambition…! I shall never write another story again!" Anne, who had risen and now stood with her back to Gilbert, sounded dangerously close to tears.

"Well, I wouldn't give up altogether," persisted Gilbert. "Maybe…if you just let your characters speak everyday English…instead of all that high-faluting mumbo-jumbo…?"

Anne turned to face him, looking like the muse of tragic poetry…if there was one. Wasn't there? Gilbert couldn't remember. "You think my story's full of faults, too, don't you?"

"'Wilt thou give up thy garter, o fairest of the fair?'" Gilbert quoted at Anne…who flushed, either from embarrassment or from surprise that Gilbert remembered the story well enough to quote. "Anne, nobody speaks that way."

Inspiration struck. "Look at that sap, Percival, who sits around mooning the entire time! He never even lets Averil get a word in edgewise." Gilbert shook his head over the vagaries of old-fashioned heroes, probably clothed in knee breeches and tights, and armed with blunt epées. "In real life she'd have pitched him."

"His poetry would win any girl's heart!" hissed Anne, stalking away in a manner that suggested Gilbert was having very bad luck with _hers_.

_The deuce—not AGAIN!_ Gilbert was so mad he didn't even realize he had cursed, even mentally, for the first time where Anne was concerned. Striding quickly after her, he sputtered, "Well—if you want _my_ opinion, Miss Shirley, I'd write about places I knew something of, and people who spoke everyday English—instead of these—these—silly schoolgirl romances!"

"I don't _share_ your opinion!"

Now Gilbert and Anne had both developed a habit, over the past few years of friendship, of whacking the other with whatever came to hand if they were being ridiculously irrational—or irrationally ridiculous, for that matter. At this moment Gilbert had his riding crop in his right hand; and, aiming for her shoulder, dealt Anne a _whap_ upon her…er…Gilbert recoiled visibly as Anne screeched to a halt and whirled to face him, her eyes ablaze.

"I am _not_ your _horse_, Mr. Blythe!" she shrieked indignantly.

"I was just trying to give you a bit of friendly advice!" Gilbert protested.

"Is that so?" asked Anne sarcastically.

Gilbert ignored her scathing query. "Take the hundred dollars, and write a _real_ story—about the people you care about—right here in Avonlea!"

"Well, _you_ certainly _wouldn't_ be _one of them_!" cried Anne, flinging herself down upon a convenient tree stump and beginning to cry dismally.

Gilbert barely had time to stand around awkwardly—unsure of what to do—before Anne sat up abruptly and turned to survey him. "_Pitching_…? and _mooning_?!

"You know," she continued between sobs, "you're about as intellectual as _Charlie_—and _Moody_—and—and _FRED_!"

Gilbert was really alarmed now. He sat down next to Anne.

"—and all the rest of the boys, who only think of finding some silly girl to marry and keep house for them!" finished Anne tragically.

Gilbert lost his temper now. What kind of person did Anne think he _was_?!...Oh, _that's right. Unintellectual._ He certainly thought of a great deal more than _winning Anne's hand in marriage_…he had thought of _her_, up until now, as far above the ranks of _a silly girl_…or even _of building a home of dreams _with—not delegating the task solely to_—Anne!_

"Well, you can cry and feel sorry for yourself all you want," he snapped. "But it won't help you write a better novel."

And then Gilbert's eyes met Anne's tear-stained ones; and she was looking at him so sorrowfully that his heart melted despite himself.

He sighed. "Will you still come with me to Fred and Diana's engagement clambake next Tuesday?"

But the mention of Fred seemed to anger Anne again. She sniffled, stiffened and shook her head, a firm no.

"Listen, Anne…" Gilbert got off their perch and onto his knees on the dirt road, touching Anne's hand, a shamed knight beseeching pardon from his fair queen. "I'm sorry. Will you let me walk you back?" Receiving no reply, he flung the question out of his way and went on. "I was just trying to be helpful! You know you get my back up sometimes," he added, half-smiling.

Anne stared hard at him as if to say _Me? Get _your_ back up? Ha!_, but remained silent.

Gilbert squeezed his best friend's hand. "Listen, I'm _sorry_! What else can I do?!"

It happened in a heartbeat: The next thing Gilbert knew, he had been hit very hard in the face with…_something_…his precarious position squatting on the ground caused him to fall over backwards into the dirt. Breaking his fall with the palms of his hands, Gilbert peered up at Anne, who had risen and was standing over him, empty basket in hand—her weapon? Well, the flowers _were_ strewn half-way across the road—looking for all the world like an avenging angel who had misplaced its fiery sword, but certainly not its seething fury. "Let _ME_ get a word in _EDGEWISE _once in a while before _I PITCH YOU_!!"

"Bit late for that," muttered Gilbert ruefully, gingerly inspecting his face for cuts, breaks or abrasions; finding none, he realized Anne was halfway to Green Gables.

He couldn't just _let her go_ like that. Gilbert scrambled to his feet and charged off in the opposite direction to mount Braveheart.

Despite the assistance of his faithful steed, Gilbert galloped up to Green Gables yelling "Anne! I'm _sorry_! What about—" before she had stumbled, outraged, inside, slamming both doors behind her.

In his frustrated state it took Gilbert a moment to notice that, not only was Marilla sitting on the porch swing, peering alarmed after Anne's angry escape, but…Gilbert's own father was just before Gilbert at the gate, perched atop the wagon and looking from Gilbert to the still-quivering door in amused interest. Gilbert shrugged off his father's questioning look, feeling a surge of anger: _How could his father laugh at a time like this?_

And then, "The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, I see," chuckled John Blythe. "G'day, Marilla."

And Mr. Blythe motioned the wagon-horse on, leaving Gilbert on Braveheart no choice but to catch up, Braveheart trotting a little to keep level with the wagon.

"…Dad?" queried Gilbert quietly, after they were out of sight of Green Gables.

"Yes, Gilbert?"

"What did you mean…back there? About apples and trees?" Gilbert asked hesitantly. He knew what the saying meant—like mother, like daughter.

But Anne and Marilla _weren't related_.

Mr. Blythe took a long time to answer. "Well, you see, Gilbert…when I was a little older'n you are now, Marilla Cuthbert and I were best friends—had been best friends since school. We went everywhere and did everything together." He sighed. "Everyone thought we were bound to end up married."

"And you?" asked Gilbert, quietly, but surprised. Marilla and his father! "What did you think?"

"I thought so, too." Gilbert's father frowned, removed his hat and ran a hand through his hair. "I was in love with her, and I wanted to marry her."

"Was…was Marilla in love with you, too?"

His father smiled ruefully. "I never found out.

"One day we were quarreling over something—something so trivial, so silly, I can't remember what it was about, nor even who started the fight. Next thing I knew she'd fled the scene, so I went home, furious.

"The next week found me in a more penitent mood, and I returned to Green Gables, desperate, not only to apologize, but to tell her how much I really cared. Her mother told me Marilla'd locked herself in her room and never wanted to speak to me again, and to please come back, because Marilla was just being headstrong, we both knew how she could get, etc.

"And I was going to go back to Green Gables someday soon. But first I took Jennifer Pearce for a buggy ride, in the hopes it would get round to Marilla and make her jealous. One ride became two, three, ten…and I eventually married Jennifer instead."

**XXX**

Gilbert was having a bad night of it.

At dinner, he had sat, not hungry, at his place at table, furtively scrutinizing Jennifer Pearce Blythe, his mother.

It was not that he did no love his mother any more. Of course he did. He had always loved his mother; she was a very kind, friendly, warm, _motherly_ person.

But he could not help but imagine _what if Marilla Cuthbert was my mother?_

_Marilla isn't a very motherly person. But mightn't she have been—once—before my father…_forgot_ about her…?_

_No wonder she is all angles and lines._

_Would we have needed a hired boy, with me around? If we did, and Anne came by mistake_—which was what the story was about Anne's precipitate arrival in Avonlea—_wouldn't we have lived under the same roof?_

Gilbert chuckled a little over that last revelation. If he and Anne had been thrown into the same household, it was doubtful that he would still be alive at this moment in time!

"Gil?" Someone touched his hand.

Gilbert jumped, staring wildly at his mother. Of course it would be his mother, wouldn't it?

"Gil, you're not paying attention to what I was saying—"

"I'm sorry," Gilbert interrupted, rising and pushing back his chair, "but I feel ill. I think I'll go to bed. Forgive me."

**XXX**

At seven o' clock in the evening, he had retired early, under pretence of illness—well, it was true, just not in the way his mother assumed, not physically.

The small clock on Gilbert's bedside table ticked quietly away, its ink-black hands now indicating a quarter to midnight; he had lain gazing at the ceiling for close to five hours.

Gilbert sat up in bed, pushing his tousled hair back from his forehead, and stared at his reflection in the mirror. The curls were a little longer and easier tamed these days; the cheeks still maintained the vestige of baby fat which had taunted him ever since he was too old to have it; the eyes were become more discerning and serious; the mouth more thoughtful and less cocky, and still with the uneven quirk on one side that suggested the eyes did not believe what they saw.

Six years ago, Gilbert had trotted off to Avonlea School for the first time in a long time, unknowing that that day he would have a slate cracked clear across his head by the new girl in town…never dreaming that he would spend the nest few years hopelessly in love with her…oblivious that the girl he fell in love with would evade even his advances of friendship for a long time…never thinking that their friendship would be so turbulent.

Gilbert stuck a hand under his mattress and drew out his old copy of _Pride and Prejudice_. Opening it at the bumpy place, he lifted from the book a dry, yellowing, white rose, which he had once rescued after it had fallen from Anne's coiffure; her dance card, from the Christmas dance; and a pink tissue rose, the most important one, which Gilbert had taken from Anne's hair…at her consent…at Miss Lavendar's wedding.

As he settled back into bed, Gilbert's face and pride still stung from the blow Anne had dealt him earlier.

"_You mean, hateful Boy—how DARE you!"_

"_**Oh, why don't you get off your high horse?!"**_

"_These flowers are indeed lovely, but I am afraid I cannot accept them. Good day, Mr Blythe."_

"_**Well, it's kind of risky, don't you think, Anne?"**_

"_Gilbert Blythe would stand on his head for me if I asked him to."_

"_**Well then, the fact is, I've rescued you."**_

"_Why don't _you_ figure it out, if you're so clever?"_

"_**It was never about **_**you**_**, Josie Pye—if that's what you're implying!"**_

"_Aren't you afraid? I'm liable to break another slate over your head…"_

"_**I was thinking about how despite the years that have come and gone since you came here you are as much of a little girl—dreaming and playing and imagining—as you were before."**_

The snatches of dialogue, born of Gilbert's more poignant memories to do with Anne, danced about his head like frenzied leaves in an autumn wind. So did questions, arranged in a list like a test:

_How do you feel about Anne Shirley?_

_Why?_

_What will you do if she does not return your love?_

_Why?_

_What do you need to do _right now_?_

And suddenly Gilbert remembered sitting in Miss Lavendar's garden, beside the yellow roses, as Anne and Charlotta the Fourth went berrying:

"_I mean I have seen Anne's temper—occasional flashes of it—and I know that she is just like I was in that respect. _Don't give up on Anne._ No matter if she gets very mad at you, no matter if she refuses your proposal _the first time_…"_

Gilbert rolled over onto his side and smiled a little. In a very few minutes his eyelids dropped and his breathing came slow and even. And across the Avonlea main road the white curtains of the east gable window with the green roof quivered in the breeze.

_**END OF PART I**_

_**FanFiction presents**_

_My stupid mouth  
Has got me in trouble.  
I said too much again  
To a date over dinner yesterday_

_**a**__**n L.M. Montgomery fanfiction**_

_  
And I could see _

_She was offended.  
She said "W__ell anyway..."  
Just dying for a subject change._

"_**BLYTHE SPIRIT"**_

_Oh, it's another social casualty  
Score one more for me  
How could I forget?  
Mama said "think before speaking".  
No filter in my head.  
Oh, what's a boy to do?  
I guess he better find one_

_Soon…_

_**Story by **__**Morte Rouge**_

_We bit our lips. She looked out the window  
Rolling tiny balls of napkin paper  
I played a quick game of chess with the  
Salt and pepper shaker._

_**Illustrations by **__**White-Lily-Blossom**_

_  
And I could see clearly  
An indelible line was drawn  
Between what was good, what just  
Slipped out and what went wrong.  
_

_**and **__**based upon Lucy Maud Montgomery's novels**_

_  
Oh, the way she feels about me has changed.  
Thanks for playing, try again.  
__  
How could I forget?  
Mama said "think before speaking".  
No filter in my head.  
Oh, what's a boy to do?  
I guess he better find one…  
_

_**Anne of Green Gables**__** (1908)**_

_**and**_

_**Anne of Avonlea**__** (1909)**_

_  
I'm never speaking up again. It only hurts me.  
I'd rather be a mystery than she desert me.  
__  
Oh I'm never speaking up again.  
Starting now…  
_

_**in conjunction with**_

_  
One more thing.  
Why is it my fault?  
So maybe I try too hard  
But it's all because of this desire_

_**Kevin Sullivan's movie adaptations**_

_  
I just wanna be liked, I just wanna be funny.  
Looks like the joke's on me  
So call me captain backfire  
_

"_**Anne of Green Gables" (1985)**_

_**and**_

"_**Anne of Green Gables: the Sequel" (1987)**_

_  
I'm never speaking__ up again. It only hurts me.  
I'd rather be a mystery than she desert me._

_Oh I'm never speaking up again_

_I'm never speaking up again!_

_I'm never speaking up again…_

_  
Starting now…_

_**Credit Song: "My Stupid Mouth" by John Mayer**_

**Thank you, everyone, for reading my story, and for reviewing, but let's not go into that. I know you lurkers! **

**_Blythe Spirit_ was published on a whim back in February, but has grown into a real project for me.**

**The illustrations, plus a sneak peek at _Unromantic Ideal,_ can be found at _blytheauthoress . livejournal . com_ **

**See you on 31 August!**

**-M.R.**


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